


Red is the Color of the Cursed

by Pandora_de_Romanus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Awesome Bofur, BAMF Gimli, BAMF Legolas, Canon-Typical Violence, Civil War, Claustrophobia, Eventual Smut, Gilion is a bitch, Glóin's A+ Parenting, Hair Braiding, Hurt Legolas, I can't tag for shit, Loads of Original Characters for the Sake of the Story, M/M, Mpreg, Thranduil's A+ Parenting, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 45
Words: 54,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandora_de_Romanus/pseuds/Pandora_de_Romanus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas comes back from the War of the Ring and reveals to his Father that he has pledged his heart. Thranduil can't cope with that and decides he has no son whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In the Dungeons...

He was going insane. He knew that. 

They had done the worse and it was driving him out of his mind. When he had lived there of his own free will he had never felt like that because he had always managed to come and go to the forest as he pleased. But then… Then his, King, his own father had locked him up in the dungeons, the stone dungeons with no sunlight, no fresh air, just the stale air that came through the vents…

It was killing him, it was killing any sane thought in his head and worse yet he was being kept from his love. How long it was? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember how long he been imprisoned either. He just remembered that terrible night he told his sire “Adar, I can’t marry the Lady Linell. I can’t lie to you either. My heart has found its own delight. Far from any sense you could have taught me for I’m in love with a warrior.”

His sire had turned the coldest eyes to his son.

“Don’t be ridiculous, ión nin. You know perfectly well that wives do not care when warriors frolic amongst themselves in the road as long as they perform their duties as husbands.”

“You misunderstand, Adar. I pledged my heart. I promised we would live for one another.” Legolas explained, he would have to tell his love was not only a warrior, but of the line of Durin, and that would be the real problem.

“You are silly if you think I’ll allow such a thing. You are a prince, Legolas Thranduilion, and you have duties to this land and its people.” His father stood his ground, he could not let his hero of a son be bad mouthed by his people as an effeminate. Where would his authority lie, then?

“I have two older brothers to perform such duties. You already have an heir to the throne, and Noldorion already gave you grandchildren. The lineage is preserved. There is no need for me to wed.” Legolas continued, he was screaming. His father was being irrational. 

“You were the only Elf in the Fellowship. You were the only of us who had a hand in saving this land and all lands from the darkness. You have great power and respect. More so than Noldorion. You would be fit for kingship.” His sire had argued, but his eyes shone with greed for power. 

“I don’t want your crown, Adar. You said it yourself; I was the only of our kind to partake the deathly quest. The only to fight its battles, feel its sorrows. My love was the only thing that gave me the will to battle to be here tonight. To survive it all. After everything, don’t I deserve respite?” Legolas begged.

“No son of mine will renegade his duties nor his King.”

“Then, I no longer am your kin, my lord.” Legolas had spit back at his sire, bitterly.

“Then, you are a traitor of your blood and of your King. Guards! To the dungeons with this impostor!” Ordered and screamed the King. The guards that came were one of his brother’s and Gilion himself.

“You know throwing any Elf in an underground dungeon is the same as killing him and you know the fate of the Kin-slayers. May Mandos have no mercy on your soul when it gets to his halls begging on its knees!” Legolas cursed at his father in fury as his own brother held his arms.

“You will condone with this?” He turned and asked his brother with hurt and betrayal in his voice and he saw the glee in his eyes. Gilion was enjoying his fall from grace and it was enough to embitter him into silence. 

And there he was. Going crazy… And worst of all, not alone. Legolas thought and his hands went instinctively to the protuberance that was making itself noted in his abdomen. He still couldn't fathom why the Gods were so merciless. Not to him, but to this child in his womb… Poor little one, to be born underneath the world, trapped. If… They both survive the ordeal of the delivery, that is. May the Valar watch over them.

Continues...


	2. Finrod Legolasion

When his son was born, Legolas had only the mute elf that fed the prisoners for company. Miro had been his friend and his help. The only reason they both were alive most probably. He was the one to deliver his little one and to cover his existence from the guards through all these months. He would bring loose clothes and food enough for him not to starve nor miscarry. He would also keep the guards from beating him enough to harm the child. Miro was no miracle worker so he couldn’t keep Legolas safe all the time, so he was still beat up, and he still had to fend for himself from the Men his father had imprisoned in the dungeons for the last years. There were no elves left there. They had long gone insane and faded in the dark of their captivity. But not Legolas. He wouldn’t die. Not when he had a son to give birth too. The Men all wanted to rape him and kill his son when he arrived. They thought he was a woman. Their mistake. Legolas didn’t need to sleep as much as them and his will to live was burning so bright for his child that he soon became the most dangerous being in those cells. He killed, and maimed and fought dirty and so the others learned to leave him be. What was good because as the child grew bigger, he couldn’t fight anymore. Miro took care of him as best as possible.

And when the child was born, he asked him to take the child to someone that would love him. Somewhere his son could be free. He named him Finrod, after an Elven King who had been good, fair and yet a friend of Dwarves. So different from his Adar.

His heart broke at the sight of the red hair. The same color as that of his beloved Gimli. He hoped the Dwarf could forgive him. He hoped he could find happiness on his own. He hoped maybe the Valar could help them meet. He hoped his son could grow healthy and live long enough for that.

The day he sent Finrod Peredhel, Son of Gimli, Legolasion, away, he thought to finally rest. He closed his eyes after labor and felt as if he had completed his journey. His son would be safe.

 

* * *

 

 

3 weeks and he had survived labor. 3 weeks and he was fading fast. His son was safe, his love would be alone forever and he would die in those dungeons he already had made peace with that. That’s when Gilion came for a visit.

“How are you fairing, brother?” Asked the blond Elf that looked so much like himself, but without all the suffering weighting on his shoulders, his older brother looked younger than Legolas.

“Better than you might think, brother.” Legolas answered, and the last word sounded like a vile curse on his tongue.

“I heard of interesting news. That congratulations might be in order.” Gilion said with a cruel smile twisting his beautiful face. Legolas only ignored him.

“I know about your half-breed. Because it is a half breed. It smells of mortality.” The older Elf said.

“You know nothing, Gilion.”

“Who did you spread your legs to? Some Rider of the Mark? Some Guard of the White City? Because the King Elessar, though being your companion in the quest, has married and you wouldn’t insist in being with him if your warrior were married. I wonder… Mithrandir would not, he serves only the Valar, and those haflings are like children to us. It couldn’t be the Naugrim either, you wouldn’t go that low, too ugly for anyone to fall in bed with him. Tell me who it is… I want to be the one to deliver the word of your demise.”

“I’m not gone yet.”

“But it won’t take long.” His brother laughed.

“Why do you hate me so?”

“Because you are unworthy of the praise all of middle-earth showers you with. Father would give you the throne and the most beautiful lady in the realm and a Noldor at that. He was always so proud of you. You, who defied him time and time again, you, who went in a quest without his permit. While I… Who was always by his side who longed to fulfill his every wish… Relegated to the last of his worries. For Noldorion was to be King and you were the favorite son. And you were ready to throw it all away for some mortal that will never really understand the nature of elves and the worth of our people.”

“Petty envy it is, then. It saddens my heart you have fallen prey of it.” Legolas said the words without meaning them, cold as a stone. He was his father’s son, after all, and he knew how his words could bite and draw blood like any sword.

“I’ll bleed your spawn if you don’t watch that tongue of yours.”

“You do that and there won’t be a cave, hole, mountain nor pit in all of Arda in which you will be able to hide from my wrath. Not even the Eye could stop me.”

“You cannot do anything from down here, brother.” Gilion said with a mischievous grin.

“Just you wait. And I’ll show you… Brother.”

“I thought I could bring you to talk peacefully, but it seems I was mistaken. Guards.” The guards, came and lifted him from the floor. “You will talk who the sire of your bastard child is, so I can tell father and send that creature away. Assure him how worthless it is, just as you are. Because, Manwe only knows why, Noldorion decided to raise it and Ada seems to like it. But that won’t last, will it? Tell me, who is it?!?!”

His brother demanded and what followed was the longest beating he received so far, but he wouldn’t let his brother tell his father the truth, they would expel his son from Greenwood and he wouldn’t survive alone in the wild. His poor, poor boy.

 

Continues...


	3. Gimli

It had been 2 years since he had any news from his friends and Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, King Elessar was worried. All the rebuilding of the Kingdom, the White City, Minas Ithil, everything… It took time, work and patience to bring all of his people together, to make them work together to make them forget the wounds of war, and for 2 years no news came, not even by bird message and he knew Legolas was pretty found of those. He had of course news of the Hobbits and Gandalf. Gandalf still sometimes wandered about the Shire and stopped by telling him what a good work Sam was doing with his rebuilding. 

But not a single letter, not even a whisper about Gimli or Legolas and they had told them they would come to help. Legolas had this great ideas for Ithilien and Gimli was an enthusiast of the Glittering Caves. But there was no word ever since they departed back to see their kindred. The King worried. 

That worry was on his mind that morning as he went to the throne room. 

He hated that part of his responsibilities but he had promised Faramir that he would, once a week, concede audiences to nobleman and people alike so that he would try and help them. It was an ancient and boring as hell custom, but he knew his people would be offended if he just let go of the tradition.

That day was long and the problems presented by his noblemen and by his peasants were many and some of them even silly, but it was a common day, almost boring day. As he got to the last audience he just wanted to be done for the day and spend some time with Arwen. 

As his guards brought the person in, he saw the distrust and disgust they looked at the subject. He was small in height and had matted hair and beard all about him in way no one could see his face. It was a dwarf he knew and his heart wanted to ask about his friend Gimli, but decided to hear the dwarf out before making any questions. The poor one, wore nothing but rags, no boots at all and seemed to have gone through hard days.

“My King.” The dwarf said going down in one knee, and his voice was gruff but familiar. Elessar’s heart skipped a beat. 

“Gimli… Is that you, my friend?” The king asked, and the dwarf almost fell from his position on the floor.

“Much joy fills my heart in being called friend by you, my King. Especially when so many have forsaken my friendship.” He said slowly climbing up to his feet, he looked weary and damaged.

“It worried me greatly that I had no news from you. I thought maybe you’ve been lost to some kind of illness, or that your heart changed in regards of us here in Minas Tirith.”

“Never, Aragorn, never, but these years hadn’t been easy on me. I hope I can tell you more, maybe in your private council.”

“I understand, my friend, and also I understand that you wouldn’t be averse to some rest, and a bed, before we talk. I ask the maids to prepare a room, a bath, and clean clothes for your rest.”

Thus it was done and Gimli was led to the guest rooms where he was able to clean himself and look a bit more like he used to, even though the bitterness in his eyes never left. The King only learnt the truth behind that bitterness as they talked during supper.

Gimli told him that his sad story began long before he left for home.

In Helms Deep, before the war, before they risked their lives he and Legolas finally were honest to each other and confessed secret feelings they held in their hearts. They were in love, and for many nights during their trip they had laid together in love and honor. When destiny surprised them, keeping both of them alive through the end of their hopeless war, they pledged their hearts to one another and each went to his land to declare they were in love and that together they would remain, coming back to Ithilien and the Glittering Caves so that they could be together.

They had foolishly hoped that sense would prevail in his sires’ mind. But in Gimli’s case that was not so. He was lashed with chain whips used in animals for many months and disowned. His father, Gloin, no longer looked upon him with anything but disgust shunning him from the Mountain.

Long he had walked, without knowing where to go. In shame, he didn’t want to face Legolas. After all his Elf was a prince and he a disgraced dwarf with no line to be proud of. After thinking hard and feeling his heart ache he thought of all the heartache Legolas would be feeling in Minas Tirith waiting for him so he decided to come. 

“Have you seen him, Aragorn?” He asked sadly. “Has he given up the wait?”

He begged in his shame. His eyes watery as Elessar had never seen. The King lowered his eyes as his heart grew heavy.

“No, my friend. There is no word of Legolas Greenleaf since you both left 2 years ago. I was worrying deeply over your lack of word as much as his.”

“You think he could have…” The dwarven lips quivered as he dreaded the mere thought of what he was suggesting. “You think he cold have… forgotten about me?”

Aragorn let out a sigh. “Legolas is an elf. And elves do not forget. Even if he is young for his kind he has seen already many more winters than us and never forgotten any of them. Thus he knows not to take love lightly. More so than us, since we are mortals, Gimli. You know what that means.”

“Could he? Would he? I ask myself.” Gimli answered.

“You know not Thranduil, King of the Greenwood. If you were shunned by your kind who was to tell that the same have not happened to him. Or even…”

“Do not say the words, my friend. If Thranduil, became a filicide, there will be no hole in the ground deep enough for him to hide from my wrath.”

“We must not judge before knowing. I shall write a letter to Lord Elrond. He certainly will have more sway with the king than I.”

 

Continues...


	4. The Line of the Cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please ignore Tauriel's red hair or this story won't make any sense. This fic was born of an age old discussion I have with a Friend that the only Elves Tolkien actually discribed as red-heads are of the Line of the Cursed.

The letter arrived to Lord Elrond and he in haste wrote Thranduil who answered not having any notice of his son. He said that he was deeply worried and that it was years since he had any letters from him.

And time passed. Seven years went by and in this time, Gimli searched the lands and rivers and forests and caves and no news of Legolas was breathed by any. His despair grew each day and his heart was heavy thinking his love dead. There was no soul more pained than that of Gimli the renegated Dwarf who dwelled in Minas Tirith with the King and Queen.

Or that was what everyone thought.

Elrond had a feeling that something wasn’t as it seemed but what, he could not phantom. He wrote, then, to Lady Galadriel and in her Mirror she saw something she had not seen in many years. In glimpses of the future she saw... An elf with hair the color of fire and a talent with crafts which last was seen when Khazad-dûn still stood a proud Kingdom… That color was striking and unique. That was the color of the Sons of Feanor. It was just a child but even so… If it carried the blood of the traitor, of the Kinslayer, bad things could come to pass, and warn she should. The White Lady felt her skin crawl just thinking about that Elf and his cursed being. And to think all the sorrow he brought was out of spite and pride. May the gods avert such Fate to fall over them once more, she had prayed while she wrote about her visions.

The message soon was delivered to Lord Elrond who brought Gandalf so that they could talk about this child. Mithrandir told his friend that it could just be a natural thing. He knew it was many centuries since there were news of a red-haired elf… That they all were killed because of the Curse of the Noldor. But it could just be an accident. Maybe he was a half-breed. Half human maybe, but Elrond would not listen. The last of the half-bred were his children, Arwen, Elladan and Elrohir, since the blood of his brother had thinned with the millennia. All knew when an elf decided to forsake his immortality and that was the only way to have a halfbreed with red hair and there was no known case.

Gandalf decided to look for this child for himself. To find the truth about this.

He went to the south and talked to Aragorn who told him to take Gimli with him to see about this child. He could look for word of Legolas too. By now, they were just looking for a grave. Maybe with luck they would find his bow… Somewhere, and maybe Gimli would be able to rest, for he never gave up. Aragorn had already but not the Dwarrow. He may have been renegaded but that didn't made him any less stuborn than any of the Line of Durin.

 

* * *

 

 


	5. The Road to Eryn-Lagaslen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if the chapters are so short. I am writing them and trying to Beta at the same time. Not sure if this is working. -_-x'

There were long days walking and riding even though Gimli detested horses. With the exception of Arod, who had followed his Heart to the Halls of his kin. Gimli usually wondered if the horse still lived. The life of Horses was different from the life of ponies if not by much, and he had actually liked the peaceful thing that followed Legolas around much more like a loyal hound than a Horse.

All Elven Realms had already been visited and checked for signs of the Flame-haired child. Lórien was easy enough to search but Rivendell had many colors… Some auburn was found, but flame hair? Gandalf who had so many many years ago seen the marks of that Line had likened the color to Gimli’s own but in all of that land none was found who had hair as red as his. Like the flame of Mahal’s forge. So they rode to Greenwood, the Great, or Eryn-Lagaslen, as it was now called by the Elves for it had been shared and Celeborn now owned part of it. Gimli’s heart grew heavy as they rode that path. How was he to tell his Beloved Elf’s kin that there was no word of him anywhere, that he had just vanished from the face of Middle-Earth? Legolas had told him about his brothers… The oldest, Noldorion, had been Legolas best friend growing up. Both his brothers were already adults when he was born and they had their own wives and Noldorion even had his own children. At the time Legolas was born, it had been a very dark time in the Woodland realm because it was the time the Queen had sailed. True, she had hoped his birth would banish the shadow that lingered over her, but that did not come to pass. And the shadow that broke the Queen’s heart extended its icy fingers over the King’s as well, for his beloved had sailed and even though he had stayed for his youngest son and his people, the sadness was there. During this time, Noldorion was father to Legolas as well as his own children, and King to his people as there would be days the King would not show himself. Gilion, on the other hand, was more preoccupied with other things. And Legolas didn’t say much about him.  
How would he tell Noldorion and King Thranduil that Legolas could well enough be dead?

That day when they rode into the Greenwood, Gimli prayed that the King would not remember his Father… Well, that was unlikely since his Father never forgot the time he had partaken of Thranduil’s ‘hospitality’ and both their people were long to forgive, longer still to forget. It was somewhat of a good thing he was disowned in that situation. He would not have to present himself with the name of his father since he was now forbidden to. Gloin had spit on his face and told him he had no son. A sigh broke from his chest at the memory for it still hurt.

He felt the trees watching them and he had traveled enough times with Elves to know it is them watching Gandalf and Gimli and not the trees… Trees are much more discreet, he had come to learn in Fangorn, even if they were more eerie and frightening in the weight of their gaze. 

“Mithrandir.” Said the Elf who seemed to be the leader of their group. He was tall and blond and looked a lot his beloved. He felt a pang cut through his heart. He had thought he could no longer feel more pain, but the simple sight of this elf proved him wrong.

“Gilion, I hope to find you well.” The Wizard answered with respect. 

“Well I am, Mithrandir, let’s hope your visit doesn’t change that.” The elf said with arrogance. “And who is this, may I ask? Are you bringing a threat to my Realm?”

“This realm may be of your kin, but it still is your Father who wears the crown, not you. You should, also, hold Gimli as a friend. He was your brother’s best friend, after all.”

“Huh… I should have guessed that even for best friends my brother would have a poor taste. As he did for maids.” He wrinkled his nose in distaste, but bid them to accompany him. “Come, the King shall receive you.”


	6. The Halls of the King

The King was different from Legolas and Gilion. He was sturdier than them but his hair color didn't lie their kinship. His features were harder it seemed as his posture was unyielding. At his side stood another elf as richly dressed as the King the likelihood of which was uncanny, he should be Noldorion. This elf looked kinder and he had Legolas’ eyes. Gimli thought he wouldn't be able to live through this journey if everyone on the blasted royal house would bring him memories of his long lost love. Breathing was increasingly difficult. 

His eyes couldn't help but lay on the elven Lady that proudly stood beside the Prince. Noldorion’s wife had long blond hair styled in the ways of the elves but she didn’t look Silvan like the others. Gimli had the impression by her clothes and hair that she was Galadhrin. Legolas had told him long years back of his infatuation with a Silvan maiden who was Captain of the Guard of the Woodland Realm. He had confided that in a way his father’s prejudiced ways had come to good as in the end they were together. Her name was Tauriel, his archer had confided and in telling him so, he had also told him of how he came to be involved with the Quest to Reclaim Erebor. He had told him of Kili and Tauriel’s love, of his petty jealousy at the time and how she had almost faded after Kili's demise. That was when his Legolas had finally understood the true depths of love, through the pain of his friend.

At the arms of the Lady there was a child. The flame haired child. 

Small it was. Messy too. As Gimli spent time with Legolas he had come to expect all elves to be clean and proper at all times but the most private ones where his Love would let go of all propriety and love him with a passion he had never expected of any Eldar. This young thing, though… It looked wild. The white robes that had been tailored to match that of Noldorion and Thranduil himself were stained with dirt from the forest ground, full of tears, totally ruined as if he had been crawling on it all day. His red hair had leaves and twigs stuck to it even if it looked as soft and shiny as any elf’s hair. He looked so different among them. There were no other children beside him and he looked out of place. He didn't seem to care though. He looked at him and Gandalf with veiled curiosity and an air of faked disdain that looked an awful lot like that of the King. Gimli almost laughed at the imitation. It was so similar that it was impossible to deny that they were kin. That had to be Noldorion’s child, and what a calamity that was. Of all the parents in the World the child of the Cursed Line could have, he had to be born prince of the Greenwood and grandson of the freaking King.

Even so, he had an absolute large nose for an Elven face and the thickest of fingers, Gimli had to notice.

Gandalf’s eyes went wide as he glanced at the child as well and his whole demeanor changed.

“Greetings, King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm.” The Wizard bowed.

“Welcome, Mithrandir. I’m glad to have you in my home.” The King nodded back with all the courtesy situation demanded. 

“I’m glad to visit. I came to give you my sorrow at knowing of the absence of your youngest son.”

“Gilion is right beside you, fret not.” They King smiled and a somber expression befell Noldorion’s face.

“I talk of Legolas, called Greenleaf.” The wizard insisted.

“Long gone he is and never paid respects to his house and his kin. He is no son of mine.” The King said with cold eyes and Gimli was reminded of his own Adad as he said the same words. 

Gimli, though, could not hear that said of his Love and remain silent. He wanted to tell all these elves that Legolas would never abandon his family this way and that some ill fate must have had him. He probably was in the Halls of Mandos, he wondered, and his Dwarven heart stung as if pierced. His shame in his own failure in finding Legolas heavy on his shoulders.

“Legolas has vanished, my Lord King.” Gimli said, his gaze on the floor his memory in the golden smile that graced his Love’s lips in their last farewell. “For years now I have searched this land from north to south and no whispered word has been heard of him.”

“And who pray tell, am I speaking to?” Asked the King with a raised eyebrow convening his disdain for the creature by Gandalf’s side. 

“I’m Gimli of Minas Tirith, at your service.”

“A Naugrim? A Nagrim with no Father? Oh… Poor thing. Renegated by your own? I wonder what fault they would have found in you…” The King was extremely condescending, and his smile a vicious predatory thing. Gimli wanted nothing more than to use his axe on that buffoon of a King who didn’t know how to treat guests properly. He didn't have to think hard to guess how his father had ended up in the King’s dungeons so many years ago. It was a blessing that Gandalf intervened. 

“Gimli was one of my Comrades of the Fellowship. One of the Nine Walkers. A dear friend of Legolas.” The white wizard said irradiating the light of his power as if to remind the King of what the both of them had accomplished for Middle-Earth and respect all living creatures owed them. He rarely did these things, but the King was being insufferably rude. The same King that affected a disgusted look at those words. Gilion followed suit and Gimli had to wonder if it was to impress the King or because of his own stupidity. Noldorion, on the other hand, looked grim and saddened.

It was a good thing they were dismissed soon after and shown their guest quarters.

“You’ve seen the child, I gather.” Gimli asked.

“Yes. I did. But there is something about it. A touch of Destiny, but still… I need to take him to the Lady of Lórien make sure he is a threat.”

“Gandalf, the boy is just a child in his mother’s arms. Too young to cause any harm.” The dwarrow argued. He had seen Noldorion’s sorrow at the mention of Legolas, he didn't want to add to his pain.

“What know you of Celebrimbor, Master Dwarf?” Gandalf sat beside him and looked serious.

“He built the West Gate of Khazad-Dum with Narvi. The most skilled in crafts of his race, I heard” Gimli had checked his history after the Quest. The gates of Khazad-Dun were from a time long forgotten of friendship between their people but they always gave him hope in bringing together Elves and Dwarrows after he and Legolas had found each other in Love.

“Not the most skilled, but one of the most skilled, yes. He also was fooled by Sauron to craft the Rings of Power that almost lost us Middle-Earth. He was also the last of the House of Feanor.”

“The one that made the Jewels? The Silmarils?” Gimli asked, both his eyebrows rising to his hairline at the name.

“Aye. A cursed lot, all of them, by Namo himself. One by one, they landed themselves in ruin and grief. If this child has any of their blood, it may bring great woe to this world.”

“Gandalf… The lad can barely walk on his own… You saw his state of dress in the hall.” He tried still. The little one definitely had his sympathies. 

“Do not worry yourself, Master Dwarf. Let us study this child. As long as we are welcome here and then draw our own conclusions.”

“You mean stay here?” Gimli asked and dreaded the whole experience before it had even started. At least, it wouldn't be in the dungeon… The old wizard only laughed at his bitterness.


	7. Brothers

The days dragged themselves and Gimli felt they were being constantly watched. 

One day, it was a sunny afternoon between the leaves of the great green trees, Gimli decided he was fed up with this and went directly to the source of the eyes he felt.

On the floor, hidden under a bush, was a mess of long crimson locks of hair filled with twigs and leaves. They framed a slender face with a too big nose right in the middle of it and hairy (for an elf at least) eyebrows.

“Oh.” Was all Gimli had the presence of mind to say.  
“Oh, back to you too, invader.” Said the child climbing a wooden bench to be taller than the dwarf.

“I’m Gimli of Minas Tirith, young lord. And I am a guest at your house. I would expect you to treat your guests with a little more courtesy.” Gimli said seating beside de boy.

“Right.” He said blushing slightly and seating beside de Dwarrow instead trying to show that he was going for courtesy. “I’m Finrod and my Adar is Noldorion Thranduillion. It is just that you are a Naugrim and Grandfather always says not to trust the Naugrims for they are not children of Iluvatar, they are made of stone and only feel love for gems and precious metals. He says also they are very greedy.” The boy explained.

“That is not true.” Gimli answered angered at this. Thranduil was teaching his grandson all the ridiculous notions about his people he had taught Legolas before him. “If it were, my heart wouldn’t bleed everyday for the one I lost.”

“And who was it that you lost, Lord Naugrim?” The boy said and he looked truly curious and sad by the pain he saw in Gimli’s eyes. The Dwarrow took a deep breath and laughed at being called Lord Naugrim. Only a child to use such a name without actually understanding its hurtful nature.

“You may call me Gimli, Little One. I lost my One. Us, Dwarrows, may not be children of Iluvatar but our Maker, Mahal, you may know him by his elven name, Aule, loves us very much, and he gave us each a great love, a love bigger than any craft, any stone, any metal. That is our One. This is the One we love above all things. Be it kith, kin, jewels or anything else. And mine is lost.” 

“Maybe Grandfather could help you find it. He has many meetings with Naugrims from the Lonely Mountain. They come to talk about trade and friendship and they bring Grandfather many pretty shiny jewels. My father said that the whole mountain is full of others. Maybe your One could be there.”

“Funny as it may be to you and your family, my One wasn’t a Dwarrow and I’ve searched for seven years already.” 

“Grandfather has been waiting to join Grandmother for much more years.” The young boy scoffed as the notion of seven years was silly.

Gimli laughed at the comparison. “It may be, but you and your family have endless years and I have not. For I will grow grey with them, lose my strength and die. Leaving this World for the Halls of my People, the Halls of Waiting, to wait there until the World is Remade and since he is not of my kind, I will not see him again.”

“Him?”

“Aye.”

The boy thought for a moment and shrugged. “That is a most unfortunate thing.” The boy said and he seemed deep in thought. His eyes shone in unshed tears for him. 

“A most unfortunate thing, indeed.” Said a new voice that approached. A tall elf with golden hair, Noldorion. 

“My lord.” Gimli bowed his head in his most polite fashion. “Gimli of Minas Tirith, at your service.”

“Noldorion, Son of Thranduil, at yours and your family’s” The Elf Prince answered with a bow and Gimli felt touched that he knew the ways and customs of Dwarrows. The prince sat beside his son holding him close. The child grumbled under his breath about not being a child anymore and Gimli smiled. 

“Now I know why you were Legolas’ favorite brother.” The pain in the other’s face was clear as water and Gimli felt guilty for bringing such a topic of conversation. 

“Oh, why he had to leave!” Noldorion let out in tired, bitter manner. His boy’s eyes widened beside him but he kept silent. He had never seen his father that way. The heir to the crown soothed the boy with a caress in his hair. “My poor brother.” He continued, busing his hands with cleaning Finrod’s hair of the leaves. “Years already and no word. He used to write so often before.” It was as if he just couldn’t hold back the words anymore. “I’m so sorry, Master Gimli, to burden you, but sometimes it seems I’m the only one to miss him. Finrod has not known his uncle. And ever since my King disowned him…”

“Wait, disowned him?”

“Yes. The day he came back from the Journey we held a great feast in his honor, but by the end of the feast there was a fight between him and the King who claims he had no choice but to cast Legolas from the Kingdom. That is why most don’t speak of him anymore and no more news we had of him. I didn’t even get a chance to say my farewells. It troubles me greatly. Even worse when Mithrandir says he has no word of him just as long. I heard you have lost someone, so I thought you might understand my grief.”

Oh, how Gimli understood. 

“I’ve searched for news of your brother for all these years too. And no news have reached me either as I told the King. I am really sorry.” He said.

“I should have gone after him.” The Prince said with a sigh. Guilt was eating at his heart and though his expression didn’t betray it, his eyes spoke of distress. “But it was just a few months after that incident that I and my Lady Anna got our youngest, Finrod.” Noldorion smiled at his son and his heart seemed lighter. He hugged the child closer and Gimli thought the action so far from what he knew of elven manners that he almost laughed.

“Father!” The boy complained at being hugged like a toddler and extricated himself from his father’s arms who laughed as the boy ran back inside the palace and stuck out his tongue as if offended.

“He is very strong willed. Reminds me a lot of my brother.” The Crowned Prince smiled, and sighed assuming a more serious tone. “He came to us not from our blood but… He is as dear to us as both our other children.”

Gimli stared at Noldorion questioningly. 

“Not by blood you say…” Gimli raised an eyebrow and could not understand. The eyes of the boy were blue like sapphires, they were exactly like his Beloved’s. The expressions on the boy’s face were Thranduil through and through. “How so?”

“Unfortunately, my Father is very fond of his dungeons, as you may have heard…” The Prince seemed very uncomfortable to talk about this.

“Indeed, I did.” Gimli answered not wanting to get into detail.

“We have many that are imprisoned, mostly Easterlings, and… As it is common in dungeons, violence happens even inside its own walls and, sometimes, children are born from these crimes.” He explained.

“You mean to tell me that there are ladies in your dungeons? Held in the same cells as male prisoners?” Gimli sputtered, shocked.

“No… But there are a few Elves down there, few of our own who have wronged the Kingdom. And even if they fade from the incarceration no sooner than in a year’s time, among those of my race there are a few that even though they are male… Can bear children. And some survive child birth. Those are pretty rare. There hadn’t been a child to survive such conditions in centuries.” At that answer the Dwarf’s eyes grew wide and for a moment he dreamed of what could have been. A daughter, maybe, with Legolas’ golden hair and he almost let out a sob at the thought. Gone. His loved one was gone, he had to face that harsh truth. There would never be a lovely half-elven maiden with golden hair and his love for axes. He scratched the corner of his eye with the back of his hand and continued talking to Noldorion as if his heart wasn’t broken.

“So your boy is a son of the dungeons. Don’t you worry about his parentage? His kin?” He said trying desperately to focus on his mission with Gandalf. That was the only thing that could save him from disgracing himself in tears in front of his Love’s brother.

“I’ll raise him as my own and he will be a Prince.” Noldorion answered, protective of his son, a frown marring the youthful brow. Not a single line of age, just one of worry. 

“They say red hair marks the Line of Feanor.” The Dwarf commented simply and Noldorion looked at him astounded that he should know such a thing, such name or even worse say it out loud.

“My son is not cursed! I already lost my brother, I won’t let you say lies about my son.” The prince said violently raising himself from the bench and glowered at the dwarrow. 

Gimli’s heart was heavy but he had to say the truth, he knew why Gandalf had come and he owed it to Legolas, to Noldorion and to the boy to be truthful. 

“But he is not. Your son, I mean. And he can be cursed. And that is the reason Gandalf is here. He wants to take Finrod to the White Lady in Lothlórien.”

“No!!!” The elf said distressed. “And why? Why do you tell me all of this? Are you not betraying Gandalf’s trust?” 

“You are Legolas’ brother, the brother he loved. I would not take your son without you knowing why.” The dwarrow explained.

“Alas your honesty astounds me, I always thought dwarves secretive!” The Prince said shocked and he perceived just how much this one that his forefathers called stunted was risking, and he wondered deeply why. 

“We are, but I have the memory of your brother to haunt me. I would never betray him. Not even in his death.” He said and his eyes brought that old pain and Noldorion had to ask.

“Why did you care so much for him? He was an elf.”

“Elf or no Elf he was my One. And dwarves only love once.” He said, heartbroken and weary of his own tragedy. He wished to die for a second, living with this was so hard he could barely breath.

Noldorion’s eyes widened comically and a whole lot of things became clear in his mind.

“You… It’s him you’ve been looking for all these years! And he! He wouldn’t marry because of you! That is why Father disowned him!” Noldorion couldn’t stop his words spilling from his lips as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place.

“Maybe this is the first and only time our Fathers have come to an agreement. I too was disowned when I told my father. But that was a long time ago.” The laugh that left Gimli was a harsh bitter sound. 

“I’m sorry…”

“That is of my woes the less upsetting. Your brother’s absence though… It is a thorn forever in my soul. But enough of all this. I must speak to Gandalf, if there is the possibility that the one who bore or the one who sired this child may have any blood of the accursed, we need to take them too.” Gimli said trying hard to focus.

“I won’t let you take my child without a fight, Master dwarf! But I may arrange for you to meet the Elf who bore him.”

“If you could?”

“For you, Brother, I would.”


	8. Silent

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it took so long to post. A few friends and I had a lenghy discussion about this story that made me change a good bit of where it was going so I'm having to work and re-write quite a bit of it all.

That same day Noldorion brought Gandalf and Gimli to his office. He called for the Guards of the Dungeons and asked them to bring him the prisoner that had bore his child. When the guards arrived they brought a free elf, Miro, the caretaker of the prisoners, the one to deliver food to them and hear their pleas of freedom. They also brought Gillion, who spoke first, the sound of his voice turning Gimli nauseous, his words even more so.

 

“Brother, don’t you think it is a bit late for you to worry about your bastard’s ancestry?” Gimli felt himself growing red in the face, the poor boy didn’t deserve this kind of contempt, he was such a kind soul. Gimli liked him. He had felt for his loss and believed his word, just like Legolas had the first time they decided on a truce among the golden Mallorns in Lothlórien.

 

“You will bite your tongue before speaking any ill of my child. He is a Prince of this Realm, just like his father before him.” Noldorion answered and Gimli felt relieved that at least one of the remaining brothers was noble and an honored father, even if a foster one.

 

“You are completely right, my Prince.” Gilion said with fake subservience and grinned a poisonous grin that seemed to mock the elder prince. “You don’t even know how much.” He said under his breath.

 

When he raised his voice again he looked straight to his older brother and said “It is a sad thing, though, that I can not help with your request. You summoned my guards for the accursed being that has bore your son but he is no longer amongst my prisoners. He has left my dungeons to be kept by Mandos himself instead of me. He screamed for days on end inside the Hole. I’m very much aggrieved to be the bearer of such tidings. But I won’t be able to help. I brought the servant that helped during the labor, though. He could answer your questions… Well, not answer per see, but he can nod.” He gestured to the elf servant that stood between two guards. He wore a simple tunic that has seen better days and that was several times sowed together again. Gimli looked at him and thought how an elf got so low. Not even the other servants looked so… Disgraced and sad and afraid.

 

Gandalf tried to be kind to the elf servant speaking politely and softly .

 

“What is your name, my friend?”

 

“He is called Miro and he can not speak.” Answered Noldorion. “Tell us, Miro, was the one who bore my son of this realm?”

 

The mute elf nodded simply. And Noldorion felt relieved. There was no blood of the Line of the Cursed amongst the Silvan that dwelled there. The Line of Feanor bared the hubris of their forefather, they had felt the Silvans to lowly for them.

 

“Do you know if the sire to my child was also of this realm?”

 

The poor thing nodded again but it would not take his eyes off the floor. Gimli felt that something was amiss with the elf and by Gandalf’s expression, Gimli knew the Wizard had felt it too. 

 

* * *

 

 

When Miro, the mute elf-servant, heard that the Wizard and Naug were to take the boy to Lothlorien, so that no doubt could be cast over the character of the young one, he had felt his blood run cold. He had never told the King nor the Crowned Prince who had bore the child. If the King knew, he would have killed the child and its father, so Miro, only gave young Finrod to Lady Anna and was glad to see the love with which she treated her nephew. She even kept the name his father had given him. Finrod Felagund had been an elf-lord friend of Dwarves and Men, much like Prince Legolas himself.

 

He was ordered by Prince Gilion to swear on his life that the bearer of the young Prince was dead. So when he was called by Prince Noldorion, he didn’t meet his eye as he answered his questions with signs. A good thing he didn’t have a voice. He wouldn’t want it to spill lies. Poor Prince Legolas… Miro’s heart went to him. His father had imprisoned him, disowned him and he found himself pregnant and alone in the dungeons full of bandits, murderers and rapists. But he was a mighty warrior, he had been one of the Nine Walkers. He had been the hardest of all prisoners, the most unforgiving, for he killed any who had tried to lay hand on him or his child. The Prince had been the one to ask Miro, his only friend in that hellish place that was the dungeons to take his son to the care of Prince Noldorion and thus he had done.

 

Now he had to make sure no one knew the Prince was there. It pained him. What he most wanted was to beg Prince Noldorion to save Prince Legolas, but he knew his fate if he did so. Prince Gilion would throw **_him_** in the dungeon, or worse demand for his head. He just hoped that the Lady of the Noldor could forgive his Prince for not marrying her kin and that she could see beyond appearances. That she could see that the Young Prince Finrod was actually the heir of two very strong lines and not that of the Cursed. That he stood for the line of Oropher, of the Teleri, and the line of Durin, the most noble of the Lines of the Naugrims. The prince had told him of his travels. The prince had told him of his Love. His Naug. Could the prince’s Naug be this one? Most probably not. What were the odds? There were a worldfull of Naugrims out there. But maybe he could alert him to take the news to his Lord. 

 

Miro then watched as the guards took Prince Legolas to the Hole. The Hole was a hole in the ground. No light, no fresh air… Nothing but Darkness and Madness. Normally they put there the prisoners that misbehaved. It was punishment. In this case, Prince Gilion had ordered Prince Legolas to be kept there so that Prince Noldorion wouldn’t know of his presence in the dungeon. The Crown Prince was too kind hearted to visit the dungeons. Only Gilion ever descended to that place. Gilion had hidden the Prince under Noldorion’s very feet and he had not known in all these years. Prince Legolas now wore a leather mask over his full head. There was a few holes in it so that he could breath, eat and see but one couldn’t divine his features.

 

Miro went to the Prince that night. The prince’s breath was panicked. He wouldn’t live long if he was kept there. When the prince heard Miro’s touch on the iron of the bars that kept him from leaving the Hole he went to the sound and Miro could touch the letter mask. The poor Prince sobbed at the touch.

 

“Please…” The Prince begged and Miro thought that he has to do something. Anything. But what?

 

Caressing the prince’s head and hair trying hard to comfort him in the Darkness he felt the dirty braids made of silky strands of golden hair. There was something weighting on one of them. Following the heavy braid there was a bead. One too big for the prince’s hair. One made of silver metal and blue gemstones. Beautiful.

 

No matter what all thought about him. Miro may be a simpleton and worse shunned by his people because his song could never be heard. He knew dwarvish craft when he saw it, though.

 

The Prince was too beyond himself to notice, but the servant took the bead out of his hair and hid it is him clothes. He may even start a war with this, but he had to do something.

 

No Naug could ignore dwarvish craft in the hands of an elf. He could even be accused of stealing, but just maybe, that could save the life of his Prince.

 

 

To Be Continue...


	9. Blue is a Lucky Color

It took long hours of debate. Long hours filtered with threats and rage, and offended elves and a very upset King and Crown Prince. It didn’t matter that Finrod wasn’t of their blood. Noldorion treated him as any of his sons. All of whom were already grown elves and also protective of their younger brother. Thranduil himself had a weak spot for the little troublemaker. For he was a prankster with a wicked streak a league wide. As Gandalf negotiated with his family how best and under which circumstances to take the elfling to the Lady Galadriel, Gimli would end up baring witness to many a fun ventures of the lad. He had a talent to exhausting elven patience, it seemed.

It wasn't surprising when Gimli saw the little prince running from a few guards who were covered in blueberry juice which made their beautiful fair hair a deep shade of bluish purple. Before he knew the red-haired boy had hid behind a statue of an elven warrior holding a lance that stood just beside the dwarrow.

“Are they gone, Lord Gimli?” Whispered the statue.

“They are, laddie. You can come out.” Gimli answered with mirth in his voice. The boy showed up beside him in a timid manner and Gimli had to laugh out loud. “You are the picture of pure innocence now, are ye not?” He said to the boy who sheepishly smiled back at him for a second before thinking about those guards and frowning.

“They were asking for it!” He said categorically and crossed his arms in front of him. Again, Gimli had to think of Thranduil.

“And what offense are they guilty of, so that I may avoid having my hair turned blue as well!” Gimli asked still in the light mood the prank inspired.

“They pick on me!” The boy said, still making a show of being angry bur coming out as pouting child. “Make fun of my hair because nobody has seen this color since the First Age. Say I’m so lazy that I let my hair rust out!” Gimli smiled but took pity on him. Being the only child around and a different one could be a challenge.

“My boy… People tend to be mean to those who are different than them. Why do you think Elves and Dwarves are always in conflict? We are very different from one another. We dwarves are very found of stone and we can’t quite understand what you people see in the trees.”

“But your One was an Elf.”

“Indeed. But he was a very special elf. He braved all that was different and tried to be my friend. Taught me how to like trees to an extent, and opened his heart to the joys of stone and construction, the beauty of metalwork. When we least expected, we had fallen in love and I was lost.”

“You are very special yourself, then. You must think all of us quite strange.”

“You are. But my One taught me a lot about elves. So I am used to it by now. I used to call him crazy elf, all the time.”

Finrod laughed.

“Not to mention, your hair color is pretty much the same as mine, see?” Gimli pulled his braids up front so the lad could judge for himself.

“You know, Lord Gimli? You and Mithrandir are the first ones I ever saw with hair on your face.”

“It’s called a beard. And we dwarves are very proud of ours. It is a symbol of strength and we use the paterns of the braids in our hair and beard to show a few things. This ones” he picked a specific set of braids. “mean that I did great things for my people. And these show that I am betrothed, that I have found my One and been corresponded. I never got to put the nuptial braids in his hair, but I managed a promise one.” Gimli said once more lost in his thoughts of golden hair and fair skin. The pain never went away, it eroded the happiest of smiles and poisoned the most joyful of moments. That was his Fate. He was a Dwarrow though, and it wasn't for them to fade in face of lost love. The Maker had made them to endure, and endure he would.

“Oh, Lord Gimli! I’m sorry to keep making you sad. You don’t need to tell me. I don’t want to make you sad!”

“Oh, but I need to tell you, laddie. Your uncle Legolas, was a very special person. Very noble, and loyal, and one of the fiercest warriors I have ever encountered. If your family won’t tell you about him. I will, so that you can be proud. And be proud of yourself too and that hair of yours. No matter what people tell you, you are responsible for your own mistakes. Not those of long forgotten ancestors. Your uncle and I? If we had held to the grudges of long forgotten ages and ancestors… We would never have found the bliss we had in each other.”

“Lord Gimli… I’ll do my best to follow your wise words. But only because your hair is the same color as mine! That should make us… Hair Brothers!” The youngling offered him his pinky finger as a promise.

“Aye, laddie. Hair Brothers!” Gimli answered with a smile that lifted his heavy heart and held his own pinky to seal such a deal.

That was when they both turned at the sound of hurried steps through the yard. Finrod stiffened thinking it was one of the guards he had tormented, but he felt himself untangle when he saw it was a servant he did not know. He got curious for there were few he had not met. And this one looked troubled and fretful. Gimli’s eyes also followed the newcomer, but he knew well who that elf was. The silent servant, Miro. He walked briskly through the paths and seemed to head to them. His eyes were on his feet, though, just as they had been when he had answered Gandalf’s inquires. He looked determined, though. Gimli would find it funny if it wasn't so unusual.  
The Elf, then did something even more suspicious. Elfs as a rule are gracious beings of Light. Their skin is alight with the memory of the moon and they are naturally graceful in every movement. Seeing an elf stumble, was almost inconceivable, and would be mighty worrying if Gimli wasn't close enough to tell it was a ruse. Knowing it didn’t stop his reflex to catch the falling elf who held him hard and desperate and found his hand quickly. There he laid something round and hard in his fingers, hidden from the view of others. He said no word. He could not. But his eyes bore into Gimli’s, again hard and desperate, begging for something the dwarrow could not know. He raised his pointer finger to his lips as if asking for silence. All this took only a few seconds.  
The servant rose quickly, showing the true elven grace Gimli knew, bowed low and kept walking, as if nothing had happened. The whole situation baffled the dwarrow. He kept a good few seconds still kneeled on the floor, looking at the direction the servant had disappeared to. He, too, rose then and let his eyes fall on the small object in his hand.  
His square fingers were gloved so he couldn’t feel the details engraved in it, but even before he saw it he knew it was a bead. As his eyes marveled it, his heart broke and his vision got hazy. He was short of breath and it felt as if he was to fall on his arse. His love would have chuckled at his less than dignified behavior, but he couldn’t help it. The bead in his hand was made of Mithril. It held beautiful sapphires in a geometrical pattern. It had minimal engravings, perfect and delicate though so small. It was the seven stars, the crown, the anvil and hammer. The mark of the Line of Durin. He knew this bead so well. Lady Dis had given it to him, so long ago. He had been just a lad. It had been in the first week he had arrived in Erebor. He had been grieving the loss of both his favorite Cousins. He had loved them so much. They had been just a few years older than him. Kili didn’t even have an actual beard. He had wondered many times if he could have saved them had he been with them. Their mother, Lady Dis, had seen his hidden tears one day and she hugged him sharing his pain. It was that day that she gave him the bead. It was a courting bead, a heirloom of the Line of Durin. It had belonged to Fili. Fili who had died so young he wasn’t able to find his One before departing to the Halls of Waiting. Gimli had carried it with him for years, for always, From Erebor to Rivendell, to Moria and Lothlórien. The bead saw Rohan and Gondor, but found a new owner in the Glittering Caves. There amongst the most beautiful sight he had ever been greeted with he confessed his feelings to his One, feelings he had considered doomed to heartbreak from the start only to be rewarded with Love and a smile. A smile that made his Elf shine in the cave as if a Star had been lit there, reflecting in the glittering stones around them as if they were in the heart of the moon. There they laid together in love and promise, there he braided Legolas hair. There the bead had found its rest only to be returned to him. Legolas was there. Hidden in the Halls of Eryn Lasgalen. Maybe even drawing breath. Gimli could not stop his traitorous heart hoping, filling with this warmth of maybe. At least one thing he could rest assured: Legolas was there or had been there and that was more certainty than he had had in seven years.

 

Continues...


	10. Rainy Days

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long!!! We are getting there! Hope you like it!!!

Three nights after that they were held in by a powerful storm. No one left the halls. A summer shower that brought thunder and lightning. It rained for a fortnight. There were too many people into the Halls of the King and everything seemed out of place. There were areas flooding in, the rivers which were too full and most of the Guards and the Princes and the King himself were called to aid in the areas of most danger. There were many that were at risk and the King was, if anything, loyal to his people and the lives of his own. He bravely led the groups in search of those missing, for the rain disturbed the nests of spiders, unholy breed of Ungoliant that they were, which attacked many amongst his people. Especially the ones cut off from their hunting groups. Eryn Lasgalen was in upheaval and few noticed that the guests were slipping from their rooms to the bowels of the Elven King’s abode. 

“So this is your way of slipping in? Is it you I should blame for this endless and merciless flood?” Gimli asked as he tried his best to follow Gandalf's fast pace through the stairs that descended into hell apparently, if the screams were anything to go by.

“Don’t be silly, Master Dwarf. When the rain is done it shall be done and not before. But we cannot forsake this opportunity. There is no way our arrival wouldn't be noticed by the Elves if the rain wasn't so noisy as to cover our graceless sneaking. There is no Hobbit Burglar in this Company of two to go about fooling the King’s Guards as last time!”

“Valar Bless Old Bilbo! I wish we had him about!” 

“I feel the same way but, come. We have to know what has become of Greenleaf, before we can proceed with this journey.”

“Thank you for this, old friend. Thank you for believing in me.”

“I would never forsake a friend. Much less one so dear to me. If he is here, Master Gimli, we will find him.”

Little did they know that while sneaking they too were targeted by a sneak. They were followed by small feet that were the owners of steps which were also covered by the sound of the rain. Gandalf sometimes felt they were being followed but every time his eyes went to check, the small feet retreated to alcoves and corners only those who knew the Halls like the back of their small hands would know. 

As they descended, lower and lower, the sounds of the rain grew muffled by the whole structure of the Halls above them and the laments of the dungeons reached their ears with disgustingly growing clarity. The laments belonged to many voices, some more desperate than others. One specially was raw and broken. 

At the doors there was still a guard, only one, but enough that they couldn't enter without being seen. Hidden from view by the bend in the corridor, Gandalf and Gimli stopped to discuss their next step. 

“I thought they had brought every capable elf to help the victims of the flood!” Said Gimli. 

“It looks like we underestimated the paranoia from our Dungeon's Master.”

“Damned be! If Noldorion wasn't such an honorable one, I would say Legolas was adopted with Gilion for a brother and Thranduil for a Father.”

Before they could even think of a plan of action a loud noise of metal things falling drew the attention of that which guarded the door. Alone, he thought for a moment but went to check the noise leaving the door clear. Not looking a gift horse on the mouth the Wizard and the Dwarf braved the door and breached the Dungeons.

The smell hit them like a punch in the gut. The air was putrid with the odor of decay and human excrement permeating the air. There was blood too, and sickness. The elves fed their prisoners but it looked like they didn't do much else. Gimli thought about his father in that place, but he never once said it had been that bad. 

“I never thought…” Gimli started saying but Gandalf already saw in his face his line of thought.

“It was never this bad.” The White Wizard said firmly, his eyes never stopping their run along the man-beasts that were huddled in the back of each cell. The prisoners were bent and scarred, truly beastly due to being treated as less than human.

“How do you know?” The dwarf asked, genuinely curious. His eyes didn't search Gandalf's own though. They were too focused in finding familiar blond hair.

“I was here to see to Gollum before the War of the Ring and it wasn't like this then.” It made sense. The dungeons were better before Legolas had lost Gollum and most probably after losing the dammed creature, his Elf was punished, losing his father's trust and his position as Master of the Dungeons. It would be ironically evil of Fate to put him under Gilion in this hell hole after he had lost this place to him. 

“Right. So maybe it is the new management?” He continued, just for the sake of conversation. The lamenting voices were getting to him. He could not let himself think of his One in this place or he wouldn't be able to see task completed.

“Most probably. Thranduil's spawn astounds me.” Gandalf answered, his disgust also plain in his voice. 

“I hate that blonde stuck-up bastard more and more by the minute. It is a shame that killing him would bring a freaking war.” Gimli spit out of his mouth with all that he felt as one insistent lamenting voice would not silence. It was the last one. All of the others were hiding in the back of their cells, silent, waiting for the dwarf and the wizard to hurt them as the elves did before. Gimli felt pity. 

“Accidents happen, my friend.” Gandalf commented coldly but kept moving in the direction of the voice. There was only the voice and the rain after that. A broken voice that begged.

“Please… Please… Gilion, I’m dying. Please. No more.” The voice was broken and raw from repeating itself over and over again. It led them to a door by the end of the hallway, it wasn't locked and there was no one inside. No light either. There was just a hole in the ground, a hole of rock and dirt and darkness. It was a void of non-existence from which the voice escaped in its insistence to remain unforgotten by those of this world. There were bars and a lock that held the world at bay and the voice inside.

Gandalf made quick work of the lock, not even he could condone with someone, anyone for that matter, left to die alone in such darkness. 

“Hello? Come on, lad, we are to take you out of there.” Gimli called and the voice was even smaller choking in its own tears.

“I-it cannot be.” It murmured to itself. 

“It can. Come on. Maybe you know of the one we are looking for.” The dwarf said in the softest voice he could. This creature had been abused enough. He reached inside with both of his arms and he felt thin shoulders and arms, too thin. He lifted the prisoner in one go. He weighted nothing. As he put him sitting beside himself, against the wall to keep him up, Gandalf lit his staff in the dark room. 

He was skeleton thin. Skin and bones. His fingers looked like claws and he was littered in black and blue marks. There were bloody gashes too, recent. His very skin was yellowish, as if it was tainted by the lack of light. The entire thin frame shook with the crying. Gimli realized with horror that the form was too tall to be a Man. 

A leather mask covered the face of the prisoner but try as he might just to deny the truth, the wisps of blond hair that escaped the grotesque mask were grayish with dirt but were oh so familiar. A trembling hand reached for the mask and as the former dwarf lord uncovered the face, he didn't know if he should rejoice or cry with the prisoner who fled the light that hurt his eyes. 

“Legolas…?” His voice asked without him even realizing it. 

“Quick!” Gandalf brought him back to the moment. “There is no time! He has been too long in that blasted hole, he is at the last of his strength. Come! We need to bring him to the surface!”

Gimli lifted his elf the best he could, he was so light, but his twigs of legs kept brushing the floor as they rushed back to the entrance of the dungeons. Gimli had no mind of the Guards, if he had to gut each and every one of them for his Love he would do so gladly. 

They were at the door when they heard the Guard talking to himself, grumbling about small royal pranksters. They were sure they would be caught this time when a small creature came running to them through the corridor, a rush of silken red tresses on a small delicate head that showed a deep impressive scowl that Gimli felt he knew from somewhere but he could not exactly place it. Gandalf though had no trouble placing it. The Infamous Durin Scowl that was so common on Gimli's face and had adorned Thorin Oakenshield's before that so often when they argued that Gandalf could not ignore it. There was another behind the boy, though, and no time to think about it. Following the Princeling also running was Miro, the Mute servant that tended to the dungeons, the one that had brought them to Legolas. The servant nodded to the boy and went on to meet the guard before he could find the fugitives. 

“Come with me, Lord Gimli! We have to take my uncle out of here!” The child whispered; his conclusions spot on. Smart. Gandalf could have smiled if they weren't in such dire situation.

“He needs to be above ground or he will die!” Gandalf explained in a low urgent voice as they all just went to the stairs that could lead them to upper levels.

“Follow me. I know of a path to the Woods that is not guarded.” Answered the boy who was supposed to be the Cursed One. The Heir of the Line of Feanor. Gimli cursed under his breath, he would be damned before anyone would touch a hair on the head of that brilliant, loyal boy. 

As they finally found the exit the rain was still falling in its earnest soaking them through in seconds. 

It was too dark. The clouds too thick. The Elf, his Elf, too still in his arms, thought Gimli.

Gandalf, in an impressive show of power, one worthy of Gandalf, The White, but that would look out of place in Gandalf, The Grey, conjured a ray of pure light that breached the cloud with the rumble of thunder. In the place, the clouds parted, letting through a pure ray of the Light of Laurelin's Fruit. 

Gimli took his Elf and laid him under the Light.

The smell of the mud, the pure water that fell from the heavens over Legolas washed the dirt from his limbs, from his hair, from his very soul. It washed away the fog from his mind, the smell of death and insanity, filling him with the sheer force of living things. Legolas heard the cries of the trees that wept for his pain. He heard the whispers of the wind that brushed his cheeks bringing him the smell of life, of his forest, his home, his land. The warmth from Anor comforting his ached body and grey skin.

Like a vine he slowly uncurled his body, his hands reaching for the sky as he thanked the Valar for being alive and free, for the fresh air… On his knees, with his arms reaching for the sky he cried as the sun shone on his face and the rain soaked his hair because it wasn’t too late. He cried because he was of this World. Because his journey to the Halls of Mandos would not start that day. He cried because maybe the voice he had heard rumbling, the same that guided him from the darkness and the warmth that had carried him to this point from the dungeons could be his earthen star. His Gimli. 

Maybe… Just Maybe there was still time to find his son. And to love him.

 

To be continued...


	11. Of the Strength of Elves

Let it never be said that Elves of the Third Age were in anyway lacking in comparison to their ancestors of the First. Of Course, at the First Age, the Elven Kingdoms were at the top of their might and not dwindling and waning as they were in the beginning of the Fourth.

 

But let it never be said that Gimli's Elf, especially, was any less remarkable than the others that made it to the Legends and Stories of his People before him. Because his Legolas was made of the things that made History. He already was one of the Nine Walkers of the Fellowship of the Ring. But as Gimli watched, day by day, as his Elf healed, he was sure that nothing could stop him. Give him a goal and he would rise to it. Give him a slip of hope and he would fight to his last breath and see it done to the best of his abilities. It made Gimli proud. It made Gimli love him even more.

 

After watering him in the rain, letting him sunbathe and see his beloved stars, just like any other plant or tree-lover the Elf was smuggled back into the Halls of the King. There was no way they could move him from that hellish place in the state he was in. He wasn't strong enough to ride or anything of the sort. Worse yet all the roads were in terrible state due to incessant rain.  

 

With the help of the young Prince and Tauriel, the head of the Guard and Legolas childhood friend that had found them roaming the halls and had sworn secrecy, they found the perfect spot to nurse Legolas back to health without anyone noticing it. Finrod told them that there was a room, a fully furnished room that no one used and no soul dared to touch, King’s Orders. As they got there, the room was covered in dust and cobwebs, it reminded him of the forgotten and abandoned halls of Khazad-dum, but with less lingering evil. It was eerie, nonetheless. Personal objects were left lying about as if the owner had intended to be back soon. They cleaned the bed and put Legolas to rest upon it.

 

As Gandalf took care of the Elf with medicines brought in daily by Tauriel, and Miro and Finrod slipped food from the kitchens to feed him, Gimli grew restless and started cleaning the room they were in. There wasn't much more he could do and he was going crazy with nothing to do but see his Elf lying pale on the bed. The quarters they were inhabiting were big and the furniture, though very Elvish, was of high quality. Of higher quality than the ones in their (his and Gandalf's) rooms, that was for sure. There were many objects of fine craft among the things there, and they looked not only valuable, also like heirlooms that probably dated back to the First Age. It was an Elvish personal quarter in an Elvish Realm after all. It was curious to think. He had stayed in Rivendell enough times, but he had never been to an Elvish lived in quarter before so it was a novel experience. The more he cleaned the more he saw beautiful interesting things. Silver combs, clothes of fine weave, a few jewels (a lord’s jewels, not a lady’s), and even a dusty Lyre.

 

It was only when he found his own spare sharpening kit beside a very worn and well-known travel pack that he realized that they were hiding Legolas in Legolas' own rooms. It was kind of ridiculous and smart at the same time. His jailers would never think to look for him there. Which prisoner would escape to his own rooms? He found later Legolas' twin blades, the white handled ones that he carried with him always, and set to care for them, oiling them, and sharpening them anew. Of course they didn't need much sharpening, they were Elvish blades, but the whole process calmed Gimli, and took his mind of his heavy heart. His Elf was safe there, but he was so weak. It was easier to spend an obnoxious amount of time sharpening a sharp blade than to think that if they were caught his Elf would not resist siege. He didn't let those dark thoughts hold his mind, though.

He worked, and cared for his Elf, and helped Gandalf, and even taught the Young Prince to work wire and stone into simple trinkets of jewelry.

 

In a month's time, Gimli was struck dumb by the healing nature of Elves and their power to draw strength from the living things. How much the living things actually love Elves. In a month’s time his love was on his feet. Pale yet, and still thinner than his usual thin self, but coherent, and with sparks of happiness shinning in his eyes every time they bore into Gimli's. It was then that he first told his friends of his Fate. How he denied his Father and King and how that led to the Dungeons and the wicked ways of Gilion as he punished him out of envy and pettiness.

 

It was then that he held Gimli's hand in bony fingers that belied the strength of its grip, looked into the dark eyes of his beloved, eyes that brought to the Elf's mind the beauty of a starless, moonless night sky, and  told the most important tale of what happened in the last seven years.

 

“Gimli nin… Melleth nin… When my Father and King threw me at the merciless cares of my brother… I found that I could not give myself up to the arms of death in that place for I wasn't the only to fall prisoner then.” He enunciated carefully. There were only friends in the room and that calmed him to an extent, Gandalf, Miro, Tauriel and Gimli, and Legolas looked at each one of them before continuing his tale, he wanted them to understand how precious this information was and how important they were to hear of this with Gimli. “In me I carried a gift from the Valar. In me, I carried a sliver of hope that kept me going all this time. I loath to say that if it was just me, I would not have lived to see the light of the Moon this night, that I would have failed you and not been strong enough.” There was another pause as the guilt ate at Legolas in the truth of his words. Gimli, though, felt a shiver of dread shake his body. He could have lost his One, he could have lost the light of his life to those Bastards. The rage in his blood boiled with the heat of Dragon Fire. He just wished he could rain vengeance on Thranduil and Gilion making them scream and he knew it would be the sweetest of music to his ears. “But I would not…” Legolas continued. “I **could** not die and take from this World the rarest and most valuable blessing the Valar have ever bestowed upon me. In the dark of the Dungeon’s a little light came to be. In there, I bore and birthed a child.”

 

There was silence in the room. Shocked silence. Not even Gandalf dared blink at that.

Your son, Gimli Son of Gloin.” 

 

To be continued...


	12. The Happiest of Dwarrows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soon we will have them interacting with the outside World. I promise. And I'll have a Ball at that.

“I-I have son???” Gimli stuttered dumbly.

A series of thoughts permeated his mind as the words started to sink in. A son. He had dreamed of it. He had had a fleeting fantasy the first time he heard Male Elves could bear young. But to actually be blessed thus. A son… 

Much was said of the End of the Line of Durin after the Battle of the Five Armies. No Thror, no Thrain, Thorin dead and both his Heirs slaughtered. Many tears were shed for them. Gimli himself shed many. They were his cousins. Fili and Kili grew up with him in Ered Luin. He didn't care about the Line of Durin at the time. He cared only that he was left behind and even if it probably saved his life, he felt so alone. As if they had left him out even of their heroic death. He would have died with them, he knew. But the more he lived the more he saw it wasn't his Fate. His Fate was in another quest. Greater than Erebor. His Fate lied with the Elf that sat before him. The Elf that braved all for his love. His One. The Elf that dared defy all bearing a half-blood child to races which held grudges against one another older than Time itself. A Child descended from Lines that renegaded their sons. No matter what his father said about disowning him. No matter that Thranduil had also disowned his Love. No matter. At that moment all in Middle Earth could turn their backs on him, he would still be the happiest dwarrow there could be.

His instincts strung him taunt like a bow at the knowledge. It didn't matter he was kicked out of all Kingdoms of Durin's Folk. He needed Stone. He needed to teach his child of the Worth of it. Of the crafts of their people, of their gifts and their stories. Teach him about their Maker. He needed a place to shelter his family. HIS FAMILY. His Elf and HIS SON.

No matter that all were against them. Yavanna had blessed them. Mahal also, and Varda protected their love. They had a Child. No matter. He, Gimli, still had the blood of Durin in his veins and now he had been given a scion. An heir. His heir. 

If his son couldn't carry the proud names of his lineage, if he couldn't live amongst his forefathers, Gimli would built him a home. Gimli would find a mountain and built for Mahal made Dwarrow ro built and endure and create beauty and if there was someone worth doing all this for, it was for his Elf, it was for his SON. 

“Yes, you silly dwarf, you do. And so do I. We only need to find him.” Legolas said with a glint of unshed tears in his eyes. He had been afraid for a moment that his Dwarf would not love their child as much as Legolas himself did, but that insecurity was washed away by the bright and uncontained happiness that flooded from the dwarrow's eyes and smile. They only needed to find their son.

“I’m sure you won't need to look far, Master Elf.” Said Gandalf with a slight smile and a glint of mischief in his eyes. Gimli looked at him in askance. He was a little slow in the uptake, who could blame him, so much was said and so much to ponder. Gandalf laughed a full belly laugh that rumbled in the silent room. All present looked at him still in silence seeking understanding. All but Miro, who also smiled secretly. As if he felt he had done something very right.

“Master Dwarf, examine this carefully, I beg.” The old Wizard asked, his smile smug. “A child born in the dungeons. The first and only in centuries! Delivered to the Royal House, owner of a quite familiar scowl and an impressive fiery mane of hair… Both of which much remind me of you.”

“Is he here?! You've seen him?!” Asked Legolas with the desperation of a father long parted from his too young progeny.

“So have you, Legolas.” Said Gandalf in kindness, Legolas had suffered far too much for his games. “He is quite helpful, your son. And your brother made good in raising him.”

“The child! The flame-haired child that has come and gone of these chambers numerous times!” Asked Legolas as if he himself was about to explode with all the feeling contained in that simple words.

“Aye! Little Prince Finrod!!! Not of the Cursed Line of Feanor, after all!!!” Gimli exclaimed in joy for there was no curse in the boy. Maybe he just had a few cursed relations, Gimli couldn't help but think about his own father, the King of the Woodland Realm and Gilion.

Legolas let out a short sob at hearing the name. It was a joyous occasion. There shouldn't be tears. 

Gimli held his hand in a firmer grip as way of comfort.

“Ai, me! They kept the name I gave him.” Legolas smiled still fighting the tears glistening in his eyes. “Finrod Peredhel, Son of Gimli, Legolasion.”

Gimli held Legolas face in both his hands as if his love would break at his touch. He couldn't yet forget the frailty of just a month ago. With that same care, in front of all his friends, he kissed him fully in the lips, sealing their joy and binding their soaring hearts. He couldn't hold back the love he felt for his Elf. 

“You make me the happiest dwarrow in all of Arda!”


	13. Changing the World

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to work more in this chapter. I wanted to make it longer. It was ending up too long so I decided to post it in 2 parts. Tell me if anything is not good. I couldn't review it with the same enthusiasm and time I normally do.

It was a curious view. Gimli had traveled with Legolas for long and had gone wide and far in his company. They had walked many leagues together, and rode, and slept under the stars and inside mountains, in forests and by rivers. They have even been to Aragorn’s Wedding together and that meant that he had seen the Elf in his finery. And a good view it was too, because Legolas looked good in jewelry even though he wasn't too fond of such. Legolas, even if he was of stunning beauty, was one for practicality. Another of the reasons Gimli had fallen for him. Different from what he knew of elves who were always thinking about fair things, Legolas was practical. His clothes were of quality, but of little adornments when traveling and his bow, the one he used before being gifted by the Lady Galadriel with one, was sturdy and simple. His hair, before Gimli had put the betrothal braids in it had been kept in the simplest style known to elves, that of a guard or a warrior, also praised by simplicity and practicality. In many ways Gimli was a lot vainer than Legolas when dressing and crafting things for his personal use. All possessions in Gimli’s wardrobe or traveling gear were gifts of people he had loved and that had wanted him to have a safe journey. So all was crafted for beauty. Also, all braid patterns in dwarrow culture have meanings, so simple patterns are not that much of an option. 

Thus, seeing him dressed as a Prince of the Woodland Realm for the first time was quite a shock. Gimli knew after seeing him that he had dressed down considerably during Aragorn’s Wedding, maybe even in regards of his friends or, if Gimli knew him as he knew he did, he dressed to please himself and not to stand as his true status of Royalty demanded. 

After Legolas confessions about their son, Gimli told him of his side of the story, how he had spent the last seven years in his own personal hell looking desperately for his One and thinking that he should be looking for a lifeless body or a tombstone instead of his idyllic Love of flesh, blood and starlight. He had also told him that he was no longer Son of Glóin. That he had been renegaded by his own, flagellated and tossed out of the Mountain with barely the clothes on his body. That he came to Aragorn hungry and humiliated, stinking of poverty and duress, hair matted like the fur of a mongrel, only to find heartbreak in his path as no word of Legolas had been heard. 

It was after this long talk amongst their friends that Gimli begged his love for them to leave. To take their son and leave that accursed place. Eryn Lasgalen… Gimli could have laughed at the notion. Not ever had that place deserved the title of Mirkwood more. Through his mind as he pleaded with his Love he heard his crystal voice broken, lamenting in the dark, the mere memory of it as painful as a whip. Mirkwood, though green and beautiful it looked was still permeated with the stench of sorrow, greed, envy and madness. Cursed by its own King. He let his imagination question him if this was what it felt like to be in Erebor under the rule of Mad King Thror. The burning hate in his marrow twisted his insides and made him feel ill. He wanted revenge so fiercely… He wanted the blood of those who hurt his Heart, his Legolas; the ones that made him birth their child in the foul floor of that Dungeon. The only thing holding him back had red hair like his own and freckles on his nose. And a smile so pure and true that it could light that entire damned forest banishing all of its evils. It looked so much like Legolas’ own, it made him feel foolish not to have noticed before. 

Because of his son he begged his Love to leave.

There was vengeance burning in his very blood, Dwarrows are stubborn and it is in their nature to hold grudges, but there was no longer an army at his back and call to fuel this kind of feud. And even if he had… His child, no matter what they told him, was raised close to his Grandfather and Gimli had heard the love in his voice as he spoke of Thranduil. So he proposed to leave all this behind and just disappear. Find some place and rest and raise their child. There had been too much darkness and dread in their lives. 

His Love, though, would not have it.

He dressed in the most royal of his attires. A long robe of shimmering green fabric embroidered with gold and silver threads in patterns of vines and flowers at the hens, collars and cuffs. On long fingers used to the hard pull of the string of a bow he wore rings that would be anything but practical when knocking an arrow. He asked Gimli to braid his hair on the braids of those who were wed and when the dwarrow inquired as to why, the Elf smiled with a light of mischief in his eyes as he confided that even though for Gimli they were only betrothed, in the ways of the Elves they were Wed, for they had loved under the stars. He had not said anything because he had wanted to let Gimli do it his own way since he had proposed and it was so important to have a solemn ceremony in the Dwarven Culture. He explained that elves only laid in passion with the love of their lives and that, although they call their One, husband or wife, elves also only loved once. Faithfull in such a manner they were, that some would fade or die of grief just to remain with their beloved, if it came that they were to go to Mandos. So he bid Gimli braid his hair in the braids of those who were wed and Gimli filled the golden hair with beads of mithril he had saved so long for this exact pattern. Over it, Legolas wore a circlet that showed his status of royal blood as if he was still Prince of that house, of that Line, of that Realm.

“My Love, my One.” He had said, and the sound of the dwarvish endearment on his lips made a shiver of possessive joy run down Gimli’s back. “Our son is much too young and has never known of us. He needs time to learn and understand this. Also, I can’t steal Finrod away from Noldorion like a thief in the night. I love my brother and it would be poor to pay all the love he lavished our son with, with this kind of treachery. He also is to be the Ruler and King of this Realm one day. I cannot leave and let him at the mercy of the serpents that haunt these Halls distilling their poison in plots of his downfall. Worst of all, he needs to know of the old mad Dragon that still lingers in the throne under the glamour of a King. I can’t let Noldorion alone to face them, unprepared as he is. I’ll not let them murder my brother when I can warn him and he was so kind to my son and me. It’s the least I can do. If not only for the love I bear him, for the love of our people. As long as Noldorion lives, there is the hope of change for this place.”

“Daft Elf… They will try and murder you instead!” Gimli said. 

“You used to have more of a sense of adventure!” The elf’s laugh was a colorless thing, a ruse to end that discussion, but Tauriel cut in with all the solemnity she could muster.

“I’ll die before I let anyone touch him.” She said and looked deeply into Gimli’s eyes, there was sorrow in hers and guilt. “I may have failed your cousin, my own Heart, my Kili. But I promise you, Gimli, for him and the love I have this brother of mine in all but blood, I will protect Legolas.” 

It was an oath and it warmed Legolas’ heart to know that Tauriel still felt for him as she always had. No matter his banishment, no matter his loving a Dwarf. She was true and that made him lighter when the future seemed so heavy. Their eyes met and she continued.

“Legolas, your father banished me, and made me feel as the last of all Elder when I found my beloved. You know how rare that is, to find our heart’s delight. He may be my King this day, but you have only ask and I’ll follow you, not only as your sister or cousin through marriage, but as I would a King. You, my friend, are worthy. I will follow and serve and protect you and yours, in honor of my Heart and our bond of friendship.” 

It was a heavy statement lined with a whole lot of truth that Gimli hadn't even known. He had heard of her. But he hadn’t known her. The impossible love of Kili… His Lady that Walked Amongst the Stars. Óin had told him the night before he followed Balin to Khazad-dum. It was a great farewell feast, and it was then that he heard a tale of real love for the first and only time. The others used to say it had been a mere fancy. That it was just a silly joke. Óin, though, was drunk in a whole barrel of ale, too drunk to lie. Gimli had only to look into her eyes to see Óin’s tale for the truth it held. They had loved. And such love only dismissed for Kili left this world too soon, dead before he could ever fight for his love. That fight now fell onto Gimli’s shoulders, and he knew through Tauriel’s words and conviction, that he and Legolas wouldn't fight alone. 

There in a hidden room in the Woodland Realm, where their ragtag group gathered, where there were Elves and Dwarrows that found love in each other, where there visited the fruit of such love and those who defended it… Gimli felt in his very soul that they were changing the World.

To be continued...


	14. The Truth at Last

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the small chapter, but I am already writting the next one and I'm on vacation. So I hope to post the next one soon. I would also like to thank Podrs, my friend who is questioning my directions and my ideas, and making this into a story of Epic proportions.

“Tauriel! How dare you?! The King has forbidden any to enter this wing and you know well why!” Noldorion’s voice cut through the waiting silence even before he himself entered the room. Loyal to a fault to someone who had betrayed him and he didn’t even suspect. Anger poisoned Legolas’ insides and he felt it burn.

Noldorion stopped immediately, seasing all words as he observed the company gathered in the room. The dwarf, who was tending to his axe, Lord Gimli; the wizard, Gandalf, the White, that had an unlit pipe dangling from his lips and the mute servant who sat beside an Elvish figure that held such familiarity to his eyes that it felt like a blow to his lungs to see it engulfed in light as it was. Legolas sat near the window, bathed by the light of the Anor. Not even a hair out of place, looking just a little thin for what was expected of him, he looked like an Elf Lord of Old.  
“Honeg!” Noldorion choked out in his surprise, crossing the room in a hurry, he needed to know he was there, truly there, alive. The dwarf was on his feet faster than the Prince thought possible. He stood between him and his brother and Noldorion wanted to rage at him for daring to do so. How very Thranduilion of him, he thought for a second.

“Melleth nin.” His brother said and the dwarf huffed in annoyance just before he took his sit once more, the threat in his eyes clear enough. That was when he was reminded of that talk, the one he held with this dwarf, the one who claimed to be Legolas’ love. He did not lie, then, and in his eyes there was the jealousy of dwarven love and Noldorion was surprised to feel understanding for him. 

“Hanar.” Legolas said, this time addressing him. And it was good to hear his voice call him so again. Noldorion wanted so much to hold his brother as he was in the habit of doing when he was a little elfling. It seemed, though, that something was not right. The clothes, the jewels, his brother’s demeanor… It felt wrong. As if he had donned a mask of indifference, an armor of cold nonchalance. It was so much like their father that Noldorion had to fight a wave of nausea.

“Where…”

Legolas just lifted his hand in a regal gesture so that he remained quiet and indicated a chair where he should sit. The Crown Prince wasn’t used to being treated that way, but he sat, nonetheless. He was used to being the one to talk while others listened, but in that room, as all sat around his brother as if he was holding court he felt as a stranger who dared demand audience with a King.

“I was kept in the Dungeons of this Palace, hanar, by order of our Father. This was seen through by our brother, Gilion. The very same who tortured me for the seven years of my imprisonment.” Legolas voice kept detached and cold. “I was banned and disowned. And I shall leave this place soon. I failed to fulfill my duties to my King who demanded I forsake my own heart and marry a Lady of his choosing, like you did. I had seen too much grief and fought too many battles to just do as I was told. So I took punishment head on, I just never believed him capable of such cruelty.” His voice never broke, never wavered and Noldorion knew not what hurt most, to hear the talk of the atrocities done to his brother by their own family or to hear it detailed in such unfeeling tone by the very same brother. 

“I knew not of your fate! I looked for you!” He screamed back at his cold brother, his tears falling unbidden down his face. He had never learned the lesson Thranduil tried to teach all of his sons, the art of being cold and unmoved. He had always thought Legolas had not learned either, but it looked his father had found a way to teach his brother, a way too cruel to behold. Noldorion felt alone and foolish for never seeing what was happening under his very nose, his very feet!

“I know, hanar. My love told me that you did. And I do not blame you for my fate. I called you here to warn you. The King wanted me to marry the Noldor Lady so that he could make me Heir to the Throne but I refused. I called you here to warn you. The King is vain and unstable and he already tried to take from you your birthright. Gilion wants more than anything power and favor, and he has proved to me more than once that he will not shy from evil doing if it brings him his heart’s desire. You stand on his way. I brought you here so that you won’t be victim. You, brother, is much too good. Much too noble. And I love you far too much to see you fall.” In those last words, Noldorion finally recognized his Honeg, his little leaf. The brother he almost raised on his own. Before he had a wife. Before he had sons. When his mother had just forsaken them all and his Father was too bitter to teach an elfling how ride or shoot from a bow. He wanted to touch his honeg, his little brother. But he knew that if he did, they both would crumble and Legolas looked like he had more to say. 

“Also…” Legolas said, but there was still emotion in his eyes and voice and he took a moment of silence to hold it back. “I… I have a son.”

“Y-You…” Noldorion stuttered, looked at him, surprised, and then at Gimli who raised a defiant eyebrow at him as if daring him to question their love. For the first time Noldorion noticed the Marital Braids of the Dwarves that stood proudly on his brother’s hair. 

“Yes. Our son is Peredhel and has inherited Gimli’s striking haircolor” Legolas completed the thought and Noldorion just had to look at Gimli again to link it all. 

“Finrod is not of the Line of the Cursed then.” His shoulders sagged a bit at that news as he let out a nervous laugh. “At least, that is good news.”

“No, he is not of that line. But our father may argue that he is not of a Cursed Line as he is a Durin.” A smile tried to escape Legolas’ lips at his own bitter joke. Noldorion’s thoughts were running with the swiftness of Shadowfax’s hooves.

“So… You are father to my child?” He glanced at his brother and his dwarven Love with a surer smile at the irony of it all.

“I gave birth to him. Still, like you were more of a father to me than our Father ever could, you are his Father. But more than anything in this land of Eru Iluvatar, I want to be that too.”

The door, which was closed and where Tauriel stood on Guard, burst opened with a breathless Finrod. Tauriel, who had for a second drawn her weapons, lowered them immediately. The boy was short of breath, his eyes round with despair and fear, he came running to his foster father, ignoring all around them. His eyes shone with fresh tears and he asked in a small voice, choking on his words, holding Noldorion for dear life, as if there were shadows that out of nowhere would grab at him and take him away from his family.

“Is that why everyone in the palace hates me? Because you are not my real father?” His voice begged for an answer.

Everyone in the room was frozen, astonished by such harsh question, such bitter perspective for one so young as Finrod Peredhel. 

To be continued...


	15. Hidden in Plain Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah, this is Sindarin from the last chapter: 
> 
> Honeg = little brother  
> Hanar = Brother  
> Melleth nin = My love  
> Ión nin = My son

Finrod wasn’t supposed to know about the truth that way. Legolas had made a plan of dozens of steps to ease the boy into the truth, but it couldn’t be remedied. He was already standing there looking hurt, betrayed and alone, asking Noldorion the hardest of questions.

 

Noldorion, different from Legolas, who was frozen in place, shocked and panicked to have all his planning be for nothing, and Gimli, who was stuttering, with no words to say, was a seasoned father. He had raised at least 3 other elf Lords if you counted his two sons and Legolas. He turned to the boy with unwavering confidence, looking deeply into his eyes of blue. So much like Legolas’ own.

 

“Not everyone in the palace hates you, ión nin. I, for one, love you so much the idea that you might be sad makes my heart hurt. As Legolas said, no matter what anyone else says. I’ll always be your Ada in my heart and I hope in yours too. I also think that everyone in this room loves you very much.”

 

“Uncle Gilion called me a bastard from the dungeons once.”  

 

“That’s because your Uncle Gilion has a very bitter heart.” Legolas intervened following his brother’s lead and trying to calm his son. He said the words in a bit of a harsh tone and his hate for Gilion was quite plain to any in that room to see, even the elfling. “Also, you are not a bastard. A bastard is a child with no father. You, darling, have three fathers and a mother. Know that you are deeply loved.” He completed with a much kinder tone, almost reverent in this tentative love he showed this lost son of his. It took all self control Legolas could muster not to take the boy in his arms and hold him like his very soul depended on it.

 

 The young Prince relaxed a bit in his father’s arms, he felt assured by the words and looked again at Noldorion for validation. The Crown Prince just nodded with a soft smile. He then searched this so called love in the eyes of others in the room and when his eyes met Gimli’s, the dwarven Lord smiled so sincerely that the boy smiled too, if shyly. He hugged Noldorion fiercely for what felt like an eternity, but them turned to Legolas and hugged him too. Legolas choked on his tears of joy and searched over their son’s shoulder for Gimli. There was so much happiness there, in those tears. The dwarf felt he had to be there, with them. He took a deep breath steeling himself against any rejection, but approached. The boy awarded him too with a hug that melted any evil, loneliness or anger that still dwelled in his heart.

 

Gimli had never ever felt like that before. He felt trusted. He felt as if he had finally, after seven years of feeling lost and dragging himself through Arda waiting for death, he finally felt complete.

 

* * *

 

 

 

On other parts of the Realm, Gilion screamed at his handful of most trusted soldiers. The ones that had enjoyed beating up Legolas Greenleaf far too much. The same ones that had guarded the prisoner and the secret of exactly who lived under the leather mask.

 

“You incompetent… Orcs!” The prince raged as he threw to the floor every document, pen and inkwell he had on his desk. “One month! How can you lose a wounded prisoner in our own realms! He may as well have escaped our territory by now! How???”

 

He threw a goblet at the captain of his men, the one who had guarded the dungeons the night the prisoner went missing. He had changed everyone one of the guards responsible for the prisoners when he had taken the place under his responsibility. He wouldn’t have anyone that had been loyal to his brother, which should have stopped this kind of problem from taking place, like one those idiots having helped Legolas scape. He knew his own wouldn’t do such thing, but fear was powerful weapon.

 

“When I find out which of you, worms, has helped him… Ah… You will know my wrath… You will understand pain!” He overthrew the whole desk. The mahogany piece of furniture was dented, but was too sturdy for any real damage. The inkwells though had all been glass, and thus didn’t survive the Prince’s temper… He was in a bad place. If his father found out, it would be him in the dungeon.

 

“Tell me!!! How is that possible for ONE LONELY HURT AND STARVED ELF to flee the Hole and the dungeon altogether! You flea bitten scum! FIND HIM!!!!”

 

To be continued...


	16. Out for an Adventure

Finrod, little by little, started spending more, and more time with his parents. The new ones, as he had taken to call them. Legolas and Gimli. Ada Legolas and Da. That’s what they had asked him to call them. Even so, he still had trouble with that. Legolas… No he had to practice, he would tell himself in his mind, Ada Legolas was one very prone to touch, and that warmed his heart for his Ada Noldorion, was the same. They were so similar in so many ways. Ada Legolas though had seen so much more. He had so many stories. Some, so funny. He had, too, a sadness in his soul that wouldn’t leave him. Down below the surface. Finrod would see it sometimes, a shadow that would pass through his eyes, and when that happened the blond elf with the sapphire eyes would hug him tight as if he was to disappear. Gandalf would say that both his fathers had seen war and that Ada Legolas had been a prisoner for a long time. He had heard when Ada Legolas told Ada Noldorion about that. He knew that he had been born in the dungeons. But it never felt as true as it did when he looked into his new Ada’s eyes and saw that shadow of sorrow.

 

Da was another matter altogether. So different from all he knew. Da… It came from Adad. His very first word in Kuzdul. Father. He now found it funny. He had 3 fathers. All so loving and so different. Ada Noldorion was wise, and kind and loving. Ada Legolas had his darkness, but he was also loving and fussed about him so much he sometimes sounded like his Nana… Also he understood fighting and shooting arrows like few elves he had ever seen. He would bet on his new Ada even against Tauriel and she was the best Archer in all the Realm. Da, on the other hand… He was REALLY funny. He had always thought so, even when he was still Lord Gimli. And he had always treated him with less pomp than everyone else, and always told the truth. He liked that. He also liked all the new things he learned from him. He was learning Kuzdul, and a lot about stones that he had never even dreamed of before. He knew so much about blades and metal. And he had told him about the Maker of the Dwarves, Mahal, Aulë as he had known him before, and how they came to be, how their people were born from stone. He had told him about the Blue Mountains where he himself was born, about Erebor, so near and yet so… alien. About the Glittering Caves. About all the beauty to lie in the depts of stone and how to see it.

 

As the week found its end, it was decided between all of them and his mother that he had to go. He had to be with his parents of blood and they couldn’t stay one moment more on the Woodland Realm. Ada Legolas was starting to get depressed from being caged in his room for so long. And although he cried for a whole night and a whole day, he understood the situation and packed to go with them, promising his mother that he was to write always.

 

They were heading to Dale before making to the South, to Gondor, where they would meet the King of Men. Even if Finrod would miss his old parents and his rooms dreadfully, it all felt like such an adventure that he was also excited from leaving this place where no one quite understood him. He was off with his parents. They would find a place for them. A place in the world where an Elf could love a Dwarrow freely and that the he, their son would be accepted for what he was.

 

Dale. He had never been to Dale before. He had never left Eryn Lasgalen before. But they said it was a city of Men where you could find lots of dwarves. And he was so curious about other Dwarrow… His life was just getting from dreadfully boring and sad to totally exciting. He would miss his parents, Ada Noldorion and Nana.

 

But he was looking forward to all the Adventure!

 

* * *

 

Finrod’s adventure started on the worst way possible.

 

They were attacked on their way to the river. The plan was to board two elvish boats that would be waiting for them after the gates on the water, the limits of the Realm. They just had to board those ships to be safe. Tauriel had everything prepared and Noldorion was to take a big party of guards on patrol on the other side of the forest. But Gilion was a sly one. He noticed the movement and took a handful of his most trusted, the ones that should be guarding the dungeons and followed them.

 

As he saw the Dwarf and the Wizard with them, he knew the hooded figure had to be his fugitive brother. And he already knew who had helped in the scape. Danmed be Gandalf Storm Crow! He may change his robes in color but his nature is the same. Bringer of RUIN!

 

They were also taking his nephew and a servant and that was when it all made sense. His disgraced brother stayed behind all this time because he wanted to retrieve his progeny, Finrod. But Gilion was not letting this go, he wasn’t going down on his father’s favor. He was getting the throne. He deserved it. He would be such a better king than both his brothers and his father. He was the only one that was really committed to it. His father was always lost between the past and the present. His mother forsook all of them, his older brother was just not suited, he was too weak, too… diplomatic. And Legolas… Legolas was driven mad by love. He had consorted men, made friends with dwarves, what else did he dare do? He dirtied their line with a half-breed!!! He just had to survive the old man a little bit, just secure his place as his heir and he could find a… way to make his father leave. He would convince him to go West or maybe even… He could be attacked by a group of orcs… who knew.

 

Of course he knew kin slaying was punished by the Valar, but accidents happened everyday.

 

That is why Gilion led his personal force against the runaways. They were 10 of his most trusted warriors against two fighting elves, one of them debilitated, a servant, a boy, a Wizard and a Dwarf.

 

It should be easy.

 

“Guards! I want you to lay this traitors to RUIN! Let’s rain death on them!” He screamed, and he hoped to see them die, choking on their blood.

 

To be Continued...


	17. He shall Not Be Forgotten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, if I have been gone for a while. A real difficult chapter is coming up and since it is so difficult, I'm trying to decide on the best approach. I ask for patience. Thank you.

They had survived, Miro noticed happily as Lord Gimli announced that they had lost their persecutors. And more important, mostly unscathed. There were, of course, bruises, shallow cuts and even a non-lethal arrow he had been hit with in his left arm, one that he had taken to shield the Young Prince, but it didn't hurt as much after they bound it. When it had pierced through his flesh he had screamed, he was a servant after all, not a warrior and never before had he experienced that kind of pain. Try as he might have, he would not have been able to stop the scream that tore from his throat. He didn't regret his decision to stand in the way of that arrow, though.

The look on Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli’s faces were worth it. The gratitude… He had seen that look shine on Prince Legolas before at all the times he had held him in his despair in the dungeons. He had seen it at all the times he had treated his wounds from the guards. The Prince had had that look on his face in its brightest when Miro had held his hand and breathed in time with him as he helped his child into their World. For Miro, it was worth more than any gold in any mountain. Lord Gimli’s gratitude, though heartfelt, was just a pleasant extra gift. He knew since he started caring for Prince Legolas that he would do anything for him. Even die, if needed and he hoped it wasn't. Do not assume he had no love for his own life, no. Not that he was in love romantically with the blue eyed ellon either, and what a tragedy would that be with the way Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas looked at each other, no. But he did love the Renegaded Prince. 

When Tauriel had decided to follow them out of Eryn Lasgalen, he had made his own wish to go with them, known. He had seen how much his Prince had suffered. He had seen his valor. He had seen Lord Gimli’s love shine in his search for his Love. He had known the fruit of their union, kind as his Bearer and valiant like his Sire.

He, himself, was just Miro, just the mute unimportant elf that was sent to work on the dungeons because no one took the time to try and understand him nowhere else. No one but Prince Legolas had taken the time to try and listen to his unspoken words and he had done so even before he had fallen in disgrace. Miro had worked under his direction when he was Master of the Dungeons. Prince Legolas was always kind, had always a smile for him, and he amongst all was one of the few that understood him with ease. He was just a servant, he was well aware of that fact. But he loved his Prince. He loved him because he was the epitome of everything he had always expected from royalty. He was worth serving. He was good and serving his with all he could made Miro feel special and worthy himself. Made him feel like his existence had a purpose in the great scheme of things. 

Because in his soul he knew that what they were doing was right. That these three… Elf, Dwarf and Peredhel, they were chosen by the Valar to change what was. They were demolishing paradigms of race as old as time itself by just living as they chose to. The boy was novelty, unique by his own right not only by his personality, his goodness, but for what he represented. They were treading openly and boldly for uncharted waters and they were leading him and Tauriel with them. He saw him and the Captain of the Guard as the First Believers. For he believed deeply in this new way. He believed in forgiving instead of holding grudges. He believed in him Prince. They had only to look at Sauron’s Defeat to understand just what the free People of Middle Earth could do together. 

And Miro understood that the Alliance between Elf and Dwarf was only possible because Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas were made of the truth of tales. Because they refused to be blinded by prejudices, because they chose to think by themselves instead of simply following what they had been taught by their ancestors.

They have been making history from the moment they stepped into the road to Mordor beside a small Periannath that carried The One Ring around his neck and the Fate of the World over his thin shoulders. 

They were already living Legends, Elf and Dwarf; it wasn't in their nature to do things like others did.

That is why he wasn't surprised to love the Prince, and he did love him. He loved him for everything he represented. For his courage and his valor, his resilience. And he would follow him to his end if needed. He had felt relieved that the end wasn't on that night as they ran to the boats that would take them to the ruins of Laketown under a rain of arrows.

They got to their boats, safe. They treated his arm. 

He had been running for his life, but he couldn't help but watch for a few seconds in awe, the magnificence that was the two, Elf and Dwarf, fighting together.

Lord Gimli and Prince Legolas? They were a sight to behold. They fought like a unit. Tauriel was impressive on her own and Gandalf was a very efficient fighter, incapacitating the biggest number of opposing fouls in the smallest time. 

Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli, though, were like poetry. While Prince Legolas was fluid like water, moving around his partner like a river around its rock bed, the Dwarf Lord was impetuous and strong like an avalanche, that worked the Prince’s strengths as the rolling avalanche worked the coldness of the snow in the peak of the mountain to increase its destructive power. They were like pieces of the same weapon. Like a bow and an arrow. They moved around each other, sure and expecting of the others moves. Complementary. Perfectly Paired. Beautiful. 

Ten of Gilion’s finest hadn't had any chance from the start. 

As he followed them to Dale, Miro felt pride to be part of that new quest, that search for peace and to somewhere they could live. He felt he was making history, and that warmed his heart. 

Maybe, even a servant could be remembered in the Tales. And if not, he would make sure to live and tell all how special and inspiring his Prince really was.

Legolas Thranduilion shall not be forgotten.

Ever.

 

To be Continued...


	18. Interlude: Dale

Dale was loud. 

And Smelly. And Crowded. 

Miro felt as if a little Elfling again. There were so many new things around them. New smells, new odors, new colors… People in different sizes and different attitudes… Not at all politely elvish as they were used. There dwarrows and men and women and children. There were vegetables, and meat hung from hooks and spices of strong odors, rough fabrics and tame animals. 

Chickens and cows and horses. 

Miro and Finrod were so beside themselves with all the new things that assaulted their senses that they both looked like excited little children. They giggled and wanted to see and touch everything. So Gimli felt the need to follow them around like a shadow to make sure they weren’t getting into any trouble. It felt familiar in a way. Fili and Kili all over again. Merry and Pippin just as well. But more curious, more elvish. This meant that they called too much attention to themselves. Humans as is common for them are always awestruck by Elves. That’s why he urged all the Elves in their entourage to wear their hoods up. Of course, Finrod was difficult and let his hood fall all the time. He was too energetic to listen to Gimli. As if he had to discover every bit of the Market in the few minutes they had had since arriving.

Gimli felt old as he followed the two Elves around. He was losing patience, but still worried about their well being. They were in a foreign city with no knowledge of the rules and laws of King Bard II, Mahal only knew what kind of mischief they could land themselves in. Legolas and Tauriel were finding them lodgings. Gandalf announced he had to return to the White Council and explain the news about Finrod’s lineage and that there was no Cursed Line involved.

Gimli felt strange and elated. Showing his son new things, caring for his well-being. His words were the only truth as Finrod asked about everything. He almost was running out of answers, but he was really enjoying it, being source of the truth for his Son. 

That was quite a new adventure. 

 

To be Continued...


	19. The Strengh of a King

Noldorion did his duties taken only by force of habit. His elder sons helped, of course, and they felt there was something wrong but he couldn't let them know, not yet, not of all dirt that permeated their family. He had to be strong. But what a toll it took to go through each day.

Having faced the truth about his Father and Brother, he felt hurt, betrayed by everything he held sacred. His own family. It was a blow to his soul. His eyes would stray to the rays of Anor and he would think of his Honeg, frail and thin, telling him it was their Adar’s fault. That Gilion had imprisoned him, tortured him, thrown him in the Hole. Noldorion made sure to visit the accursed place, he had to see. He had to understand that horrid truth of what kind of twisted creature Gilion really was. As he walked down there in his visit, the prisoners would curl together in a corner, afraid, trembling and he would feel his guts revolt only imagining Legolas there, with the same fearful gaze in his blue eyes. 

Staying underground with no windows in that place just for the duration of his visit had been heavy; he tried picturing staying there for days, years…

When he left the dungeons he tried to leave the memory behind and keep going forward as he had been asked to do. He had his people to worry about. He would not, he could not leave them at his Father’s mercy. He started plotting his own defenses against his brother, building safeguards to all worst possibilities. He trained his sons harder; he brought his men and his loyal advisers closer. He planted the seed of doubt in them that they should not trust the King blindly. Not enough to be treason, but enough that his boys and friends would be safe. He taught his sons to distrust. He hated that. He hated that his father and brother had turned him into such a person, for he hated to plot. He felt dirty, tainted by them.

Even as time passed, every time he heard screaming, he would see his son being born in the dungeons, his brother laying in the dirt half-dead, half-mad from the whole ordeal. That image never left him. He was bitter. His sons, the ones that stayed behind were the only thing that kept him from forsaking the whole façade and confronting the King head on in front of the whole Kingdom.

He missed his youngest like a thorn limb.

The entire Realm thought that Finrod had gone to see the White Lady in Lórien. They thought he would return someday, even as the years went by. Only he and his wife, his Lady Anna knew the truth and that also broke his heart a bit. He knew Legolas and Gimli had the right to raise Finrod and also knew that Finrod was much safer far from Eryn Lasgalen where Gilion could be of no threat to their boy. Even so… He loved the little scoundrel and missed him. 

Gilion baited him more openly. He had noticed some of Noldorion’s moves to protect himself from him. So he started calling his youngest a bastard to his face. So he started saying how weak he thought him and how he was not the right one to wear the crown. Noldorion would smile tightly and ignore. If he didn’t, he feared he would do much more than just answer. Every time his younger brother neared, his hand would itch for his sword and at the tip of his tongue he would bite the exact remark that could end in bloodshed. He had promised Legolas to be the beacon of hope to their people. He had promised not to do anything stupid. 

He quite remembered the story… The Doom of the Noldor.

That was what awaited those who betrayed their brothers. Mandos saw that they suffered, saw that “tears unnumbered” were shed by the kinslayers. Mandos saw that all things those of the Line of Feanor touched turned to ash. No… It wasn't worth it. He had sons. He had his wife, he had his People.

The Curse of the House of Feanor. Cursed be his line and his name that even the mere mention of it brings ill. 

He would not invite this upon his house.

So he stayed his blade and he prepared.

 

To be Continued...


	20. Of Blood...

It happened before he could even understand. Before any of them understood.

Thranduil was holding Court in the Throne Room. His father lounged in it, self-satisfied, a vision of Justice and Righteousness. The Perfect King. Noldorion even remembered with a bad taste in his mouth that the Robe the King wore emulated one worn by Gil-Galad in a gravure sent by their kin, Celeborn of Lórien.

The fact his Adar dared stand as high as the Last High King of the Eldar in Middle Earth turned his stomach. They were talking about something or another. He wasn’t really paying attention, at least, not until he heard as follows.

“… Majesty, your victory upon the Orcs of Dol Guldur is memorable. The Royal Bard should write something about it.” Said a clueless courtier.

“There should be song also for Prince Legolas. He was the only Elf amongst the Nine Walkers and he honored our People. He saved us all.” Said another. The poor soul didn’t even understand how dangerous those words could be to his health.

“No songs shall be sung for the Prince who failed his duty, his Kingdom.” Strangely enough the King said such thing openly. Many didn’t understand. 

Though Noldorion had heard from his father his excuse for exiling his brother, no word had been told the courtiers. He had only forbidden them of speaking of Legolas altogether, saying he had left. That was why Noldorion was so surprised to hear someone talk about him so openly. As it ended, the ellon was an emissary from the portion of the forest that now was under the rule of Celeborn, who had taken part of Greenwood’s lands as reward for his help against the Orcs of Dol Guldur.

“You mean the Son you disowned because he wouldn’t bow to your whims?” Noldorion said before he even knew what he was saying. When he realized what he had done, he looked at his wife’s horrified eyes and saw the fear in them. He felt it in himself for one second, but he was so angry, so bitter about it all. The hypocrisy that permeated the Hall as everyone held their breath, afraid of their King. It shouldn’t be like that. What kind of Rule could that be, when the subjects were so afraid of their King. He remembered his brother and the fear felt justified. But how wrong was it of his Adar to impose himself over his people that way. Their people trusted them to lead them wisely. Not enslave them. His brother would not be a slave and look where his freedom led him. 

“Legolas left of his own accord. As you well know.” Gilion answered in the King’s place. He didn’t trust his father to uphold their public lie in front of the courtiers, they had to hold it or the doubt could spread. Thranduil looked livid at the audacity that Noldorion was showing.

“Do I?” The elder Prince asked, without a hint of doubt. 

“Are you challenging your King?” Gilion tried, growing angry. He had to silence his brother soon or they would have a serious problem with their people. They could even face conspirators if this talk of Legolas continued. 

“No. I’m asking my Father, why he saw fit to banish one of the most honorable Heroes of the Elven race, our Brother.” Noldorion was relentless. He was already in the fire, he had already made his mistake, he might as well make it count. He had to speak all, to clear the clog that had been locking down his throat making him choke on his food for all these years, making his life taste like ash and misery.

“You are being insolent.” Gilion all but screamed.

“No. I just want the truth, as all here, I imagine. Prince Legolas was beloved of our People as you know and envy him for such. The least the King can do, is tell us all what made our Prince leave.” Noldorion continued, his voice was level, sure of his righteousness. 

“He didn’t, he is down in our Dungeons as we speak. He is a traitor.” The King said with finality, as if his word was the incontestable truth. A noise of surprise escaped the lips of many of the present, the Court was shocked, and Noldorion was reminded they were not alone in the Throne Room. For a moment there he was lost in the pain in his chest. He had known that his father had imprisoned Legolas, but hearing it said as matter of fact as the King did, hurt. 

“Traitor? Just because he refused to marry the Lady you have chosen for him? After all he gave to this World? This Kingdom?” Noldorion countered. He was in pain, but he would not be silenced. There was much that his Father had to answer for.

“He could be much more than a mere Prince, his influence and his marriage could have gained us back what of our forest was taken by Celeborn’s greed!” The King’s voice ranged around the dead silent room. All court was too shocked that their King had condemned his youngest son for treason without a trial for a matter like that. A trifle really if you were to ponder it… Especially when he had two other older heirs, one of them already properly married and with sons. 

“Greed? He offered help when we most needed!” Noldorion asked astounded by his Father’s words. The more he spoke, the more the Prince was convinced that Madness had a grip of the Great King of Eryn Lasgalen. 

“Help? I call what he did a veiled theft of our lands!!! And you condone with him! You too are a traitor! I knew you were too weak for Kingship! I had all the reasons to try and raise your traitorous brother to your place! But, alas! He is too much like you, weak and whiny.” The King continued. He didn’t seem to care about their company anymore to Gilion’s horror.

“All of you, out of here!” The second son screamed around but the whole Court was too transfixed in what was happening to move. Gilion wasn’t King, he couldn’t order them out and many of the most proficient advisors, the wisest Lords and even the Emissary of Celeborn were not leaving. The truth was being said and they would listen. 

“So you threw him in the Dungeon without trial!” Noldorion accused, rage burning in his eyes.

“He deserved it!” The King screamed back, his fury burning just as hot. 

“Did you know he was pregnant? Did you know? Tell me!” Noldorion was beside himself, he was just as crazy as his father, then, and he knew. His wife’s eyes were on him, still begging him to stop, but he couldn’t relent. He had been silent too long already. He had to know, he had to.

The King paled at that. His eyes widened minutely, but his face still etched in rage for all others. Noldorion though knew him too well.

“Yes, Father, Legolas is a proud father. You sent your pregnant son to the Dungeons. How noble of our King.” Noldorion answered his voice dripping with sarcasm, as his words twisted the wound he was sure to have inflicted upon his Father’s heart, tiny thing that it was. The King stood and turned his back to Noldorion.

“It must be a filthy half-blood.” Thranduil snarled in rage to cover any sign of worry he might have shown. He sounded as if trying to convince himself. 

“Oh, it is.” Noldorion said happily. He had the upper hand and his Father would learn of the sins his craziness had led him to. “But can you imagine?” He asked as he smiled cruelly at his Father. “Your son, Legolas Thranduillion, laying in the filth, bloodied and screaming, having your grandchild? Alone? A child that you loved?”

“What are you talking about?” The King asked and Gilion closed his eyes trying not to think that he knew all this all along and hadn’t told the King. That Finrod was actually of their blood. He was so doomed. He prayed that his brother would just shut his mouth and stop ruining all he had worked so hard for. 

“Who was the last child of the dungeons, Father?” Noldorion asked, as if the words were his sword. Vengeance was his and it felt sweet as mead.

“Finrod.” The King said as if choking on an unpleasant food.

“Yes.” Noldorion said with a sadistic smirk as Thranduil strode in front of his throne. He already was in the fire, he might as well burn his father with him. “It is funny to think about my son. We found in the end he is no descendant of Feanor. The fire of his hair comes from his Firebeard lineage, the other bloodline that mix with Durin’s blood in Lord Gimli’s veins.”

The King fell on his throne as if he had been struck with an arrow in the chest. Horror filling his eyes at the thought of his Line sullied by the blood of Durin.

“You… How dare you? You help him! You conspire with him against me!!!” The King screamed in pain and betrayal.

“No, I do no such a thing, Father, because he is not here. He left Gilion’s ‘tender’ cares a long time ago. I helped him, yes, to leave with the Dwarf and the Wizard when they took Finrod.” Noldorion looked into Gilion’s eyes. “Away from your grasp. Safe.”

Gilion bared his teeth into a scream rage. He hated Noldorion. He had been the one to help Legolas escape and rob him of all the Glory that would be his, of his THRONE! Damned be his Accursed Brother! He thought as he lunged at him with his sword. Noldorion had to pay, he had to die! 

Noldorion was tense as a drawn bow and he was ready when the attack came. He easily defended himself, but was surprised that his brother would dare.

“You think yourself so much better than I, don’t you?” Gilion asked, spit flying from his mouth, he was totally out of control and Noldorion knew it. 

“I don’t think, brother, I am better than you. You’ve fallen prey to the dark in your heart. Your greed and envy have poisoned it. You were weak.” He said simply. In a way, fighting Gilion was freeing. He had raged alone for too long.

“I’ll show you weak!” Gilion answered and attacked in earnest. His hits were desperate and angry. He was a magnificent opponent when calm, but his anger made him sloppy what gave Noldorion the upper hand. The Crown Prince defended his brother’s attacks and advanced on him. They fought for a long time, consumed in the hate that they shared from one another, but Noldorion was the best sword’s master. When he took Gilion’s sword out of his grasp, he pointed his sword to his throat.

“Surrender.” Noldorion demanded. 

The Eldest of Thranduil’s sons heard it too late. He felt it too late. The silent steps, the whisper of breath, the presence behind him, the horrified scream of his Anna, the blade piercing his back and running through his insides. He looked at the sharp tip of it protruding from where he knew his heart was. 

Before any pain, came the wet warmth. The blood that stained his robes red. He heard more than felt his sword clatter on the floor, fallen from his dead hand. He did feel his lungs incapable of drawing breath, though. His knees buckled from under him and he felt the sword sliding out of him through the same place it had entered. It sung with his blood. He felt the pain, then, and the floor as he fell on his hands and knees. The iron taste flooded his mouth; the smell of blood permeated everything. He brought one hand to his chest and it came up soaked red, dripping. His blood. He stared at it hard. He was for the afterlife. They had run his heart through. He knew. There was too much blood. He reached for his sword, he had to, at least, wound the vermin who had stabbed him in the back so unceremoniously. The lack of respect infuriated him for a second. As he reached for his blade, his hand slipped from under him and he fell on his side pathetically. He looked up to his executioner. 

His Father’s eyes blinked back at him.

Noldorion couldn’t stop the tears. He couldn’t stop his hurt. The wound in his chest felt secondary. A shadow forgotten in face of the hurt of knowing his Father had murdered him.

He just cried openly.

Anna was cradling his head, asking him, begging him, to fight, but it was too much. He had expected that kind of betrayal from bitter Gilion, but from his father… It broke him. He left for Mandos with no words.

It just hurt too much.

Too much.

 

To be continued...


	21. Calm Before the Storm...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a small reprieve. But I'm already writing next chapter... Hold on, I intend to update soon.

Legolas felt the sun warm his skin and felt content.

 

He could smell the crisp of morning. The dew drops on the leaves. He could hear the birds waking with the sun and it made him content. He blinked his eyes out of reverie. The vision that greeted him was better than that of the city outside.  The sun turned his Love’s hair into cascading fire and his skin glowed with the red dusting of hair. Gimli was pure muscle. Strong arms, sculpted chest, big hands. Hands that would seem too clumsy for the fine handling they were capable of. Gimli had the hands of an artist. He could deny all he wanted, and he did often, but Legolas knew the work of said hands. Not only the physical work, like the crystal encasing Gimli wroth with mithril to the Lady’s Gift, but he felt on his skin. Elves healed quickly, true, but Gimli could give him all pleasure in Arda and he wouldn’t even be sore in the morning. He was an artist of stone and metal, but also so talented with Legolas flesh. The elf felt his heart soar just remembering the night before.

 

The memory only served to excite him further.

 

His fingers couldn’t resist the urge of plunging into red tresses and beard. Legolas loved the feel of them. So much softer than they looked. It was bliss. Of course he missed his home, his Woods, any woods for that matter. But life in Dale was much better than anticipated.

 

They still planned in going on to Minas Tirith, but they had decided to build money for such a trip. They knew it could be a dangerous road. So Gimli worked metal at a Dwarf forge inside the city. Tauriel worked selling arrows of her own craft as well as Legolas’ and Legolas tried his best to hide with Miro and Finrod. They were known to the King and some of the nobles of the city. They couldn’t let King Bard II be bullied by his brother to hold them back to their jailers. Legolas, if he could help, never again would like to lay eyes on his father. He hoped the King was slain. He hoped an arrow from an errant orc would find its way to his heart. Of course he couldn’t say this out loud. His son had liked his Grand-Adar. Noldorion, though hurt and cautious still loved their father. Legolas tried again to curb the bitterness in his heart. He had too much to fight for. He had his beloved back, he had his son, blood of his blood, and he had friends. They would soon leave Dale and build a home for themselves. Far from Eryn Lasgalen and any threat of his Father and brother. They would be happy. He knew it. He vowed it.

 

Gimli blinked dark brown eyes at his as he awoke slowly. Eyes that looked like the depths of a bottomless pit. Warm with love as the dwarrow right hand held his face tenderly and a smile painted his lips. He kissed his dwarf with passion, then, for he was beautiful and perfect. He was his.

 

Gimli’s beard tickled his lips and he could feel his lover’s hands running his sides possessively. No Elf could ever love like a Dwarrow and Legolas knew that, he loved that. He enjoyed knowing that Gimli would slaughter whoever tried to take Legolas away from him and even if it was selfish and certainly a dark pleasure, he couldn’t help but love the feeling.

 

Love the feeling of the soft red beard on his chest as he lay straddling his Gimli, his Lord, his Love, kissing him fully, drunk with desire. Gimli was everything. Gimli was all that was good in him. Legolas knew that if it weren’t for Gimli and for their Finrod, he would already be insane.

 

He marveled at how fast he got hard for his lover. He aligned their flesh and as he pushed his hips forward he drew a delicious moan from Gimli. Gimli’s hand grabbed hungrily at his arse as the fingers from his other hand teased him, sliding easily into his loose oiled hole. They had had a wonderful night, but he was ready for an even better morning, so he pushed back into Gimli’s fingers. He was already panting and flushed all over.

 

He bit the skin junction of neck and shoulder under Gimli’s beard and let his tongue tease the sensitive flesh as he slowly got to the nipple ring pulling at it gently, but not holding it long as Gimli hit his sweet spot with his fingers making him gasp and forget every teasing he had had in mind.

 

“I need you. I need more than your fingers, Melleth nin.”

 

Gimli took his fingers out of him and lifted him, his strength always surprising Legolas, sliding his ‘mighty axe’ in him all the way with one single stroke.

 

“Manwe help me!” Legolas cursed at that. Every time was just as good and he could not phantom how. Every time Gimli managed to take from him all of Legolas’ self control. He was an Elf, they should be frigid by mortal standards. But Gimli had this power over him, this power to turn him into this wild creature of magic and pleasure. He loved to be that. He loved to be Gimli’s.

 

“Mahal, I love you, Elf! So tight!” He whispered in his treasure’s ear with a struggled breath for control. Legolas urged him to move, though. He needed him. He enjoyed the rough treatment. No elf loved thus and he loved that his dwarf did. He needed him so badly he couldn’t think straight.

 

He impaled himself in Gimli with abandon in time with his every thrust and moaned loudly as if fevered.

 

Legolas kissed him again before throwing his head back and feeling his peak reaching him. He pulled at Gimli’s hair and beard as his love stroked his elfhood once, twice and he was over the edge, squeezing Gimli inside him as he felt the waves of pleasure wash over him leaving him weak. His dwarf-lord came just after, flooding him with his seed. Legolas fell forward, over Gimli and let his One cradle him in gentle arms. There was no better way to start a day, he mused with a sated smile on his lips.

 

* * *

 

 

He was making more arrows when he saw the caravan later that day.

 

They needed as much money as they could gather for their trip and they were to leave in a day or two. They had spent already four years planning, living in this city of Men. Legolas thought that in a way, they were stalling. Dale was close to their former homes and they knew they were unwelcome, but the moment they left, they might not come back and they knew it. So they stalled. But something in Legolas heart told him it was the end of it. The sight of so many dwarfs… There were two hundred of them at least in that caravan. And Legolas certainly was the only to see them yet. He got down from the roof where he had been making the arrows and went to warn his companions. Gimli was a cast out, and differently from the dwarrow that lived in Dale who didn’t know him, in Erebor he was a known figure.

 

When the caravan finally was camping at the gates of the city, Legolas and Tauriel climbed the city’s highest tower to take a better look as Gimli, Finrod and Miro hid in their room in the city.

 

There were a lot of dwarrow down there. Many old. A lot of younglings without a full beard.

 

Legolas went to the tavern after, for information. He had to know what happened to move so many at the same time.

 

Something was really wrong in Erebor, and they needed to know what.

 

To be Continued...


	22. Tavern Talk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took so long I re-wrote this thing a thousand times until it was to my liking. Even so  
> , please take a look and point me if there are gramathical or orthographical problems. I have no Beta.

Gimli feared his mission. Gathering information about dwarrow shouldn’t be hard, he was dwarrow and most dwarrow treated each other like distant kin, most of them were, one way or the other. They all descended from the same Seven Houses, after all. They knew the secrets of their race and bonded over them.

But Gimli was a disgraced Lord. He was lashed publically in the middle of the Market Place before being expelled from Erebor. Every dwarrow in the whole mountain knew of his crimes and of his shame. They knew he had loved an Elf and that his Father and his King had judged it treason punished with Exile. 

Talking to anyone from Erebor would be revisiting it. Opening those old wounds that would never close bleeding them anew. Those hurtful memories that haunted him every time he thought about his Father, Mother, his Cousins… Dwarrow were very close to family and Gimli for all the years of his exile and of his search had felt like an odd duckling out. 

Of course he had the balm of his own odd family. His Husband was a constant well of warmth and though he still wanted to hold a Wedding Party in Dwarvish fashion when they got to Gondor, Legolas was already wearing his wedded braids daily and they were already married through Elvish Custom. His Son made their life in exile as exciting as any quest, they were forever learning and enjoying his discoveries and he grew more and more affectionate with them each day. Also, he had come to love their surrogated ‘brother’, Miro, who was all hope and hard work and their sister, Tauriel, that in Gimli’s mind was not only their sister by Legolas’ side but through wedlock on Kili’s side. It didn’t matter if it hadn’t happened, though Gimli guessed it had in Elvish fashion. Tauriel mourned his cousin still as any dwarrow widow would.

He dreaded talking to his people again, even so… It stirred a whole bucket of unpleasant memories.

His back still bore the marks of his shame. Gimli could still remember how shy he was to shed his clothes in front of his Love after so many years of separation. He had tried to make himself small as his lover’s eyes had traveled over the scars that crisscrossed his whole back. There was a moment then… Of pure silence that had seemed to last an entire age, and Gimli had never felt more unsure. Not even before confessing his love. What brought him back from that terrible moment, were Legolas’ lips which kindly touched the scar tissue on his back, reverently tracing the lines left by the whip with soothing kisses in the fire light. They made him relax, his muscles uncurling and he felt like himself, he felt loved and cherished for the first time in seven years. He felt whole again. He felt like Gimli of the Nine Walkers. Gimli of the Three Hunters. Gimli of “Legolas and Gimli”. He felt himself again. No longer shamed, no longer renegade, no longer a disgrace, no longer alone.

Facing his kind made Gimli think about that half person he had been before reuniting with Legolas and he had hated being that person. That person had failed his family, his people, his One. That person was a nothing that lived off the goodness of his best friend the King. He understood the need for information, though. He had seen enough of War to understand how important the news of Erebor could be. He and Legolas had keen eyes for trouble. They had too much first-hand experience with it. 

So Gimli swallowed his pride and entered the tavern. 

There were a lot of Dwarves in travelling cloaks around. All of them hooded as was their custom. Gimli went to the bar and sat heavily on a high stool, one made for dwarves. Dale was such a big adapted city. The tavern had chairs and stools for men and dwarves alike since there was so many of both peoples wandering around those parts. 

He asked for ale. It was very early in the evening, it was already dark but the sun had just sunk in the horizon. Gimli wanted to wait, to observe, to find an opportunity. 

He wanted the other dwarves to be drunk. He wanted them not to remember his name when he asked his questions. He wanted himself to be forgotten. He wanted to forget all the hurt that facing them would bring back. Gimli felt his heart break and his breath hitch just thinking about his Ma. He never got to say goodbye when his Adad had kicked him out. He studied the pattern of the wood of the bar harder. He needed to keep it together.

“Gimli, lad!” He heard said loudly behind him, the voice eerily familiar. 

“Gimli, I’m so glad to see ye! Y’er mother has been sick worried ov’r ye!” The dwarrow came and sat beside him. He dared look, his heart racing, afraid it was indeed the person he thought it was. The beard that used to be black as ebony some 60 years ago was white, much like his father’s but thicker, straighter, shorter. The hat was threadbare; Gimli still wondered if magic was what held the damned thing together for so long.

Bofur. 

Gimli’s heart gave a sad hurtful twist of shame in his breast. He had hoped there wouldn’t be any of those who had known him before amongst the travelers.

“Hey.” He said back, as low as he dared looking through the corners of his eyes, trying not to face him head on. Trying to hide behind his own beard like a coward.

“What’s up with ye, lad? Ye don’t look so well.” Answered the older dwarrow, looking actually puzzled. Gimli couldn’t say if he was mocking or truly clueless.

“I would appreciate if you could… Keep it down. I was disgraced after all.” He says, just so that if his old friend was sincere he would stop exposing him unwittingly. The old dwarrow didn’t seem fazed though. He just grabbed a stool, sat himself by Gimli and asked for mug of ale. As if they were just two good friends catching up.

“Don’t be silly, lad. That thing with your father? Bloody ridiculous, if you ask me. That the King went with it is even worse. So what if you got it going with a tree-hugger. Your cousin did it and no one said anything. Thorin Oakenshield wanted a Hobbit for a Consort, who is your Da to judge? Though I don’t envy you your in-laws. Can you imagine a family dinner with Thranduil? Poncy son of a cursed witch that one. He is the bloody reason for all this commotion! Declared War on the Bloody Mountain!” He exploded for a moment and thought back for a second looking at Gimli as if seeing him for the first time. “Fuck! Are you a spy now?” He asked as if he had been re-thinking all his words.

“No!!! Mahal help me, Bofur, NO!” Gimli answered, outraged. What was Bofur thinking? He wouldn’t dare. He may have been exiled but that didn’t mean he now hated his kin. Legolas’ said it would be normal if he felt that way and he did resent his father greatly, but there were so many he still loved. His mother, for example, had cried and sobbed throughout the whole of his lashing. “You really think I would sell my kin to Thranduil of all people???” He continued in an indignant cry that even drew a few dirty stares.

“Well, it is certainly unheard of to turn your back on your One.” Bofur answered matter-of-factly.

“Thranduil disowned Legolas! Threw him in the dungeon for 7 freaking years.” Gimli explained angrily. Just thinking about the whole ordeal, made something in his gut burn… A hatred for the Elven King, something vile like the pain of a festering wound turning the taste of his ale putrid on his tongue, like he was swallowing the water of the Dead Marshes. Never before had he understood Thorin’s hatred of the Elf like he did every time he remembered what his One had gone through. And he finally understood what it was like for him as a dwarf to hold a grudge. Thranduil would never be forgiven. His sin never to be forgotten. And these feelings flourished through his words like flowers blooming through the cracks of a stone wall. Bofur felt a shiver of understanding run through his spine.

“Well, fuck me, he and yer Da could go to town and trade stories, eh?” Bofur said as he looked at Gimli under a new light. No longer was he the wee one he had met. He was an adult. He was a seasoned warrior, an exile who had denied his whole life for his One. An Elf. It was a curious to think that through something so alien as an Elf, Gimli had finally embraced all that was out to be himself, his full potential. 

“You don’t know the half of it.” Gimli confessed tiredly. His life had been so full of commotion lately. He just wished him and his loved ones could get a little bit of respite. A little bit of peace and quiet… He dreamed for a moment of the light reflected in the walls of Aglarond and how this light would catch in his beloved’s eyes, shining like sapphires and how he could finally teach Finrod to carve the beauty of Crystal. He longed to built a home… 

“So that’s why ye’re in Dale? Running from the Mad King too?” The old dwarrow asked. 

Gimli nodded before asking. “So that’s what ye all ‘ve been doing h’re?” He had come to the tavern for information after all, it didn’t hurt to ask. They were being honest in a way they never were before. Bofur finally saw him as an equal, it seemed. 

“Taking the Old and Women outta there before the poncers arrive. You?” Bofur asked as he drank deeply from his mug. It was sad to see himself, warrior that he was reduced to this. Old.

“Ran from the Woodland some time back, thinking of ‘flying’ south before the winter, if you get what I mean.” Gimli answered and his daydreams about Aglarond returned with a vengeance. At least he could finally teach his son about the love of dwarrows for stone in the loveliest caves of Middle Earth.

“Gondor, then?” Bofur raised his eyebrow in question. All pretend and subterfuges falling away. It was just the two of them and the truth. 

“Maybe. There are these caves in Rohan, I named them Aglarond… A true place of beauty. It calls to my heart like a Siren. As if my peace and my destiny lay there. As if they were home. I dream of them, of building a place for my family, of having the ones dear to me there, happy and protected. The walls are pure Crystal glittering with a myriad of colors and light. Like Mahal made them to reflect all the beauty in the world. I feel like I could grow old just watching the light there, the same way I know I could get lost just memorizing the intricacies of the blues in Legolas’ eyes. The Valar had twice blessed me. They gave me my One and my Life’s Work on the same trip. I just wish I had the working force to mold it. I could build it into a mighty Dwarrow Colony.” Gimli confessed. His poetry just overflowing from his heart. Natural as breathing.

“Lad… I’m not too old for one last adventure. I would follow you. I could spread the word around. Gimli, you saved the whole World. All the Free people. Never forget you are a damned Hero. No matter what they did to you. And I will follow you. You and your Elf, wherever. Especially, if he can get the Prissy King even prissier.” He smirked at the thought of Thranduil’s rage. Bofur thought of Dain’s sharo tongue for a moment.

“Hey, we could start a merry band and settle in Aglarond.” Gimli said jokingly. As if that would actually happen. He knew pretty well him and his were pariah. 

“We could.” Bofur said turning serious all of sudden. Making sure Gimli understood how important he really was. How much he was respected. “But I have to take all the old and weak to Ered Luin first.” Bofur offered more in a way of reminding himself of his mission than explaining it to Gimli , as if throwing it all to the wind and leaving to follow the other dwarrow was all too tempting. “Your Aglarond seems like a dream for times of peace and we are facing war. I’ve heard Thranduil attacked his own kin, before turning on us… Remember he had split the Woodland Realm with Lord Celeborn, the one from Lórien, in exchange for his help during the War of the Ring?”

“Aye.” Was Gimli’s answer, he had no strong memory of him, the White Lady was too bright and had blinded him to all else. In a way, it seemed as if Celeborn used his Lady to hide himself and plot from the shadows. It would be sensible. He was a strategist. A leader of his own army and he had lent aid to Thranduil and taken part of his land as payment. 

“Well, the Mad King took his whole land back. Killed the Galadhrin with no warning, in the dead of the night, just plain murdered them into their beds.” Bofur explained somberly.

“Ye’re fucking kidding me!”

“I’m not. Worse yet, Nori was telling me some… things… in confidence.” Bofur said cautiously. He didn’t want to be the one bearing the bad news… But someone had to be. “Well… He is Chief of Intelligence and Spy Master for Stonehelm, you know. I probably shouldn’t be telling you any of this. But… Thranduil’s son is your One. He will have to know sooner or later.” He sighed sadly as if it pained him to say the words. “I heard Thranduil murdered all that defied him in his own land. Including his heir, his own son. Your One’s older brother. I never met him, but according to Nori, he defied his father in middle of court and that he was stabbed in the back by the Mad King himself. I’m sorry.” He finished, and there was the merciful nature of Bofur in the tact of his words.

“Crap.” Gimli let out.

“I take it, you knew him then.” The older dwarrow said.

“Aye. He raised my One. Helped us escape from the dungeons. Raised my son until I found him. Good and Fair Lord, he was, would have made such a better King than his thrice cursed father.” Gimli said, he wanted to convey how noble Noldorion had been. What a waste it was that he now laid dead in a ditch somewhere, left to rot. Not honored in his death.

“These are always the ones to go first. The Valar like them too much to let them roam the land too long. I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” The red-headed said, letting his head fall in consternation.

“But wait a minute right there! You have a son? When did THAT happen??? Better yet, HOW? Wasn’t your One a lad?” Asked Bofur confused as hell, but delighted none the less. Dwarrow praised children so much… The population of dwarrowdams were only a third of the total, so children were so rare, so special, a true treasure. It was a good way to bring back the conversation from the dark paths it had wandered to. 

“Aye, but Elves are weird.” Gimli said simply with a smirk and it was enough explanation.

“Right.” Bofur said and he was delighted to see his friend’s smile back. “Congrats anyway.”

“Thank you. My boy… He is called Finrod.” Gimli said, pride growing and warming his chest.

“Elvish name. You said he was raised by Elves and that he actually is half-elven. Does he have a… Name?” Bofur asked, curious and meaningful.

“Not yet. We… there is no worthy Stone in Dale.” The younger dwarrow answered, a little embaressed.

“Take him to the Mountain!” The other said excited. “No one can deny a dwarrow his right to his Name! He needs to go through the Ritual or… He won’t be able to go to the Halls of the Maker. You know that.” He said looking into the bottom of Gimli’s eyes trying to make him understand how important it was.

“I can’t take him to the bloody Mountain. I’m exiled, remember? And… Well, he doesn’t look exactly… Dwarrow. I want him to have his Name; yes, of course I do, and his rights to the Stone, but… They will hate him. They will hurt him. He had that already with the elves and he looked Elven. I don’t want him hurt. That’s why…” He paused for a moment. “That’s why I wanted to make the Ritual in Aglarond. Before we get to Gondor. Where it is Safe.” The former Son of Glóin, said. He was so afraid of hurting his child. And he already knew the poor lad would be broken hearted when he discovered about his Ada Noldorion being gone. Just imagining the tears already made his own heart constrict.

“He is of the Stone, Gimli. He is like us. We are made to endure. Endure he will. There is a War coming. And he has the blood of the Mad King, people will try and kill him. It is dangerous for him to die without a Name. He will get Lost. Take him to the bloody Mountain!” Bofur said in a dead serious tone, he was getting frantic for the boy. He was convinced that Gimli was spending too long with only Elves and Men for company.

“They will kick us out… And he will be in even more danger!” Gimli answered raising his voice.

“I’ll go with you. I’ll take him myself if I must!”

“You already have your mission. You have to take the weak and the old to Ered Luin.” Gimli said reminding his old friend of the situation they were in. Bofur wasn’t shamed like him, he couldn’t be the cause of another loved one being shunned by his kind, he would not.

“Lad… I don’t know exactly what I’m doing. But the last time I felt this… Need to help… The last tim I felt this… I left Ered Luin in a hopeless Quest led by a Crownless King and a crazy Wizard with eleven other dwarrow and a Hobbit.” The older dwarf said. It was simple, really, this feeling of finally finding someone worth following.

“You have a King. One with a fucking Crown in his head and a fucking Mountain this time.” Gimli declared feeling exasperated with it all.

“He is not our Thorin. He will never be our Thorin. He is Stonehelm. He is Dain’s King.” Bofur said with disdain that had remained hidden through many years, bottled up.

“You know this is a silly grudge.” The other countered trying for reason.

“I’m a silly old man. And I want to go down following someone I deem worth it. Worth of this old and short span of life I still have going. And, lad… This silly heart of mine is telling me it is you and your weird family. Your son doesn’t have a Name, for Mahal’s sake. You need more dwarrows with you. Someone to put some sense into your thick skull.” Bofur said, his fingers running through his mustache. 

“And what about your mission?” 

“There are others to see Stonehelm’s orders through. My mission now is helping you do right by your boy. Take you and your bloody Elf and your bloody son to that bloody Mountain and see that the boy gets his bloody Name.” It was Bofur’s final decision and Gimli bloody well knew it.

“Bloody Bastard.” 

 

To be continued...


	23. Of Epic Meetings at Small Inns

As they approached the Inn Keep where they had been renting rooms for the last few years, Gimli noticed the horses. They were tall, regal and unusually intelligent looking. He couldn’t stop thinking about Arod. There were no saddles on their backs. Elven horses for sure, five of them. Gimli took out his axe from its holder and heard Bofur do the same to his mattock. 

As they walked through the door, the wall of sound engulfed them. The Inn was just as busy as the Tavern they were in, the people in the room little more reputable than the ones in the Tavern. At least, there weren’t that many whores, something Tauriel had insisted on not exposing Finrod to just yet. 

The huddle of tall slightly glittering beings was in a corner by a wide open window. The moon shone through and lit them all with its ethereal light. The cold from the window kept most humans and dwarves abbey. That and the fact that it looked like some kind of epic meeting some other dimension they shouldn’t cross to, somewhere beyond the reach of mortals, as if their table was actually the White Shores. It wasn’t that common to have that many Elves around without Thranduil being in town, and whenever he was they usually brought tents and kept to themselves. All of them seemed to shelter something in a closed circle. Gimli couldn’t see what it was, but he had a good guess. 

“Legolas, Âzyungeluh?” He asks and the Elves part so that he can pass through and what he finds breaks his heart. What the Elves protected was his beloved Elf, but not because of him, but because of the treasure he had in his arms. Legolas was sitting in a comfortable looking chair, comfortable for the Inn’s standards, at least; with their child in his arms. The little one was asleep but he held onto the blonde like a lifeline. His little fingers curled into fists around his husbands golden hair and clothing. The tears trailed his face like they had been traced there by an artist and it made Gimli’s heart feel small and hurt. His face contorted in silent rage and he looked menacingly to all Elves assembled. 

Bofur put a calming hand on his shoulder. 

Legolas looked into his eyes and those deep sapphires bore the Weight of the World. His eyes looked old in his youthful face. Like he was getting tired of this world, like the Sea was calling to him. He reached out a hand though and his fingers slithered in Gimli’s hand as if the Dwarf was an anchor that held him in that side of the ocean. 

“Gimli, my star, it is good that you have arrived.” His Love said in a placid tone, like all the pain in his eyes weren’t really there, as if he was as unyielding and unfeeling as his Mad Father. “I need you to meet my nephews. Achardir and Golwenin are Noldorion’s sons.” He stuttered for a moment. “I mean…” He swallow down all the pain and the sorrow that threatened to color his voice. “Were Noldorion’s Sons. They came bearing ill tidings.”

“Bofur told me of what happened, but the Dwarrow know only what has been talked about.”

“Our father was murdered. Stabbed in the back by our own Grandfather while fighting our uncle Gilion. Died in our mother’s arms. She took up my father’s own sword against them in a crazy attempt for Vengeance. She too is gone to the Hall of Mandos.” Explained Golwenin passively in the natural cold that most Elves of the Royal bloodline of Thranduil reserve for their acquaintances. 

“ I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was a very honorable Elf and very dear to us, he never denied us his help or his regard. I never had the pleasure of meeting the Lady Anna, but Finrod loved her with his whole heart.” Gimli answered courteously. These Elves, no matter how cold and detached they acted, had just lost both their parents and were family. Gimly was ready to treat them as such.

“We know, and we thank you for your sentiments, Master Gimli. Finrod is our honeg and we love him. He will always be. We couldn’t not tell him in person, but our misfortune is not the only reason to bring us here.” Golwenin continued. His brother kept his silence for the moment, but it was clear in the white of his knuckles and the tense line of his lips that he was furious. That he was holding onto his rage firmly so as not to scream it in the Inn. Both Princes looked at the other seated elf that had come in their party. 

“I apologize for not presenting myself before. I’m Bronwe and I stand as March-Warden for Lord Celeborn of Lórien.” The Elf said and he bore himself as older and more experienced, his hair, different from the blond locks that adorned the heads of Legolas’ nephews was a dark brown, almost black. Gimli felt that this one was even older than his Love.

“I’m sure you already know who I am, since you already met my husband, my son and our companions. And I hope you know whose shoes you are filling. Haldir was one of the bravest warriors I’ve ever met.” Gimli said, he wanted to remind this Elf that no matter how old he was, nor who he was serving, he had fought side by side with his predecessor and he should respect that if nothing else.

“I know well who you are, Gimli, Son of Glóin, of the House of Durin. Only Dwarf to walk amongst the Fellowship of the Ring. I was under Haldir’s orders for a long time, and it pains me to claim his title. But the Lord has asked it of me, so the least I could do was serve him. I came here in behalf of my Lord Celeborn and his Lady Galadriel. They bid me come to you as an emissary of their intentions. We lost many of our brothers in arms in Greenwood. They were murdered and the limits of our treaty have been violated by King Thranduil. He has shed the blood of his Galadhrin kin and that on itself is a very grave offense.” Legolas and Gimli both assented their acknowledgement of this, Bronwe continued. “We came to you, though, because of a graver matter yet. King Thranduil has murdered his own son and his son’s wife. And I know that if Achardir and Golwenin had been there instead of patrolling the borders, he would have eradicated the whole line of your brother. And that, Prince Legolas and Lord Gimli, is a sin that once was punished directly by the Valar.”

Legolas looked the elf in the eye. “I understand it.” He said in a low voice as not to wake Finrod, who slept heavily with exhaustion from having cried so hard for his lost parents. It was a clear symbol of his Dwarf heritage that he could sleep like any mortal child. “That was the reason the Noldor were Cursed by Mandos. What I do not understand is why come to us. We are exiles.” 

“My Lord and my Lady believe that those who hold the power in the Greenwood are oppressing their own people and leading them to unnecessary slaughter as they march to war with the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain. They believe the King and Gilion have descended into madness.” Bronwe said.

“I don’t see any news there.” Gimli grumbled in a low voice and Bofur had to smile. They had by then procured their own chairs to participate properly on this important discussion. Tauriel, Miro and the other two elves, the ones who looked like Galadhrin Guards decided to remain standing, still shielding them from prying eyes. 

“It may be that we all had ignored the signs before.” The March-Warden conceded.

“Yes… When Legolas was locked away and tortured no one questioned his disappearance but me, Gandalf and Aragorn. When we ran from the King, the whole situation was deemed a family matter. And now that you pile your dead, you come to the conclusion that the King is mad. As I said before, no news there for us.” Gimli said coldly and judging, his eyes meeting that of his One’s.

“Indeed. Speak plainly. Why have you come?” Legolas urged, getting annoyed by all this. He wanted to take his boy upstairs and let him sleep and forget for a few hours the pain of Noldorion and Anna’s deaths. He himself wanted to let his son sleep and have his own cry somewhere private, where he didn’t need to keep himself together. Where he could let Gimli console him and hold him as he had Finrod.

The Galadhrin lowered his eyes and he seemed tense about what he had to say. He took a breath and decided there was no point in lingering the subject. “You, my Prince, is of the blood of the King. You are the next in line for the Throne.” Bronwe said.

“You are mistaken. I am an exile as I already explained. The next in line is Gilion, and if he is as mad as my father, you have both, Achardir and Golwenin, who can be kings and lead our people.”

Celeborn’s emissary frowned at Greenleaf’s stubbornness. “Prince Legolas, I beg your pardon, but it is your right. No disrespect meant to the younger Princes, but you are battle tried, your highness. You already have a successor.” He took the time to point at the sleeping child. “And what I came here to say is that you have the support of my Lord Celeborn and my Lady Galadriel.”

“You also have our support, Uncle. We understand that we are much too young for such responsibility and our knowledge of War is limited. You are friends with the Kings of Gondor and Rohan. You’ve traveled with Olórin, and met Hobbits. You are married to a Dwarf Lord. You’ve seen the North and the South. You’ve met Lord Celeborn and the Lady Galadriel, you’ve been to Lord Elrond’s Home. You’ve seen War and you know the price of Peace. You are by far more suited for Kingship than either of us will ever be.” Golwenin said. He looked tired, but level headed. Very different from his explosive brother.

“My Nephews… I was banned and imprisoned because I refused to sacrifice my Heart for my Kingdom. I will never renounce my husband and marry a proper Elven Lady. I will not.” Legolas answered, never raising his voice. Finrod’s sleep too important for him to risk it.

“No one is asking it of you. You just have to lead and we will follow.” Golwenin affirmed as if it was logical. 

Achardir, who had remained silent through the whole exchange finally looked at his uncle’s eyes and said “We just want a chance to avenge our parents, and you, Uncle, is our best shot at it.”

Legolas was moved by the sincerity, by the fact that they had thought it through before going after their Grandfather’s blood on a whim. He held his son tighter in his arms and pondered this. Golwenin and Bronwe were too political to say it but Achardir had told him the ultimate truth. Legolas was the only apt commander the brothers believed to be fit to defeat their grandfather. It made sense. He knew the Elf King’s tactics too well. And Bronwe was there in Celeborn’s name. Celeborn wasn’t stupid. He knew that the people of Greenwood would never turn on Thranduil on his behalf, but on Legolas’ they could. And… That would be the fastest way to finish that imminent War. All very clever strategies. 

All of them led to him. 

Legolas in that moment had pondered all that he had wished for himself in his life. All the love he wanted to share with Gimli, all the love he wanted to give Finrod. All the peace he had wished and longed for through the dark nights of their Quest and his imprisonment. He pondered all the evil they had braved and he let himself imagine for a second, how it would be, how the world would end up if Thranduil made War on the Dwarves. What world would it be for Finrod if Elves and Dwarrow hated themselves forever.

He sighed deeply. Closed his eyes for a second.

Legolas, then, looked at his beloved. Gimli looked back. There were no words, no need for them actually, Elf and Dwarf were just like that. 

Legolas looked at Achardir and Golwenin after, into their very eyes, nodded as if accenting to all that was said by them and like a solemn oath he said:

“You have your Commander.”

Achardir shook his head in denial with a true smile on his face. He raised to his feet with pride and kneeled before his uncle.

“No, Uncle. We have our King.” He said lowering his head.

His brother followed suit, as did Tauriel and Miro in silent agreement. Bronwe smiled and also kneeled in respect, both the guards who accompanied him following suit. 

The rest of the Tavern didn’t quite grasp what was happening and neither did Bofur. But he knew as he too kneeled at Gimli’s Elf that he had just jumped into the ship of History Making… Again.

 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Achardir - the Vengeful One  
> Golwenin - the Wise One  
> Bronwe - The Faithful
> 
> Honeg - Little brother


	24. Hard Requests

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not properly edited... If you have advice, please say it.

After they had all that pompous kneeling, and Bofur had known Kings and Royal blood, but Elves were so much more complicated than Dwarven Royalty, they all had to define paths. Of course, they decided to talk about that only in the morning. No matter how strong and rigid Gimli’s Elf was, he looked ready to keel over. He had after all just heard his brother had died. Elves were such peculiar creatures. If a dwarrow had just heard his brother was murdered, he would be pulling at his beard, crying and screaming in outrage, he would lock himself in for a whole week in grief. These Elves just politely spoke about it and went on to practical matters. As if their hearts were blocks of ice. Bofur wondered if Gimli’s Elf, bolocks, Legolas, he corrected himself in his own mind, he might as well learn his name since it looked like he would be following them to bloody war, would behave like that when Gimli went to Mahal’s Halls.

 

He heard the tears through the door of Gimli and Legolas’ room, though. He heard the low tones of his friend as he tried to care for his Elf. After all was said and done, after they decided to plan whatever they were doing in the afternoon of the next day, he heard it, clear as day; the sounds of pain and sorrow escaping the flimsy, terribly manufactured wooden door of a building made by Men. They sounded true enough. So… At least, this Elf didn’t have a heart of stone. In a sad way, that knowledge comforted Bofur. Gimli had been through Hell and back, the least he deserved was to be loved, truly loved. Only that would make all the insanity he and now Bofur were getting into make any sense and have any value.

 

After that, Legolas finally had some level of his respect. Maybe following this Elven King wouldn’t be as bad as he thought it could be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Legolas, like their son, fell asleep curled up to Gimli. He was exhausted and sad and not even a mourning song passed his lips. Nothing but sobs had passed his lips until he fell into reverie but it wasn’t a common one. Gimli had never seen it before. It sounded so hopeless… He had called out loud at his dead brother, his eyes open and unseeing but full of more tears. He had begged their father not to kill him, he had even reached out. Gimli was haunted by the eerie sight. He also felt weirdly relieved for being a single child. And for not having a power mad father too. Gloin could be very Intolerant about what was different… But he at least was very sensible when it came to other things. He was a practical kind of chap. He managed his money well; he managed the Crown’s Money well. He was a very simple kind of guy where all that made sense was the numbers and the fact that, in his mind, Dwarrow and Elves didn’t add up romantically.

 

Gimli would just hold him, caressing his hair, kissing his temple, and waiting for the nightmares to subside. When he was finally able to sleep, he woke up to an empty bed. Legolas was up and he sat with a bunch of maps, a look of concentration in his features though he was only half dressed.

 

Legolas looked at him with an apology in his gaze.

 

“I’m sorry to drag you into this. I know we had plans. I know we had Gondor and the Glittering Caves… I just can’t let this World turn sour because of my Father and live with myself.” He had said.

 

“I never asked you to be no other than yourself. And the moment it was spoken, I knew your answer already. You feel responsible. You are Good. And here we are.” Gimli answered, he didn’t regret that they were going to war again. It was one of the things he excelled at.

 

Legolas nodded his accent his expression not revealing what thoughts haunted his mind.

 

“Don’t worry, Nimir. As I already told you, I would follow you into Mordor itself even if Sauron was still there.”

 

Legolas smiled for a second, but his smiled turned sad. He answered.

 

“It is good to hear, for I plan on asking hard things from you, Melleth.”

 

“Like what, if I may ask?” The dwarrow asked genuinely curious.

 

“I plan on going to the Mountain with the contingent offered me by Lord Celeborn. And I will offer our assistance against my Father, but you will be my hand in negotiating with the Dwarves.”

 

“Why? You know they hate me, they don’t respect me, I was lashed and exiled.”

 

“They may hate you, but they shall give you the respect you are due as you’ll be the one to speak for me. They need to know how much I value you.”

 

“A poor choice for a King.”

 

“That is where you are mistaken. You are the one to most understand dwarrow amongst us, the perfect diplomat.”

 

“They will think I’m a turn coat.”

 

“They already think that for having chosen me.” The elf said a bit bitter. As if feeling guilty for being the reason for his love’s exile. Gimli though wasn’t focused on that. He just didn’t want to have to deal with all the wounds to his heart the moment he had to sit with his former King and probably some his advisers, one of them his own Father.

 

“You have Bofur.” He tried and even he knew it was a weak point. “And he is as dwarrow as I am, without them hating him.”

 

“I still know very little about Bofur. But if you trust him, I trust him. Just not enough to trust him with this.”

 

“Stubborn Elf.”

 

“Daft Dwarf.”

 

To be continued...


	25. Right Place at the Right Time

The King’s Mourning didn’t last long. Like most of the Dwarrow Bofur knew, this Elven King just threw himself into work with feverish abandon. As if he worked hard enough, he wouldn’t be able to think about his brother lying in a ditch somewhere. 

Bofur was still finding his place among so many elves, and Gimli was so better adjusted. He still remembers easily when he concluded he was in the right place after all.

He had been sitting at the bar in the Inn, trying for some peace, some... Lack of Elves altogether at least for a few moments. The place was empty but for him and the owner of the Inn sharing a kettle of tea. It was really early. He remembered hearing light footsteps on the wooden staircase and a small face peering from behind the wall. The face was pale and Elvish, but still had all the baby fat of a child. The eyes were still red from crying the night before and the face was still swollen by sleep. A curtain of long red hair framed both sides of the face. The hair was definitely a mess and Bofur had to laugh at the sight.

The thin boy, well, thin for dwarrow standards at least, went red in the cheeks and the tips of his very pointed ears. He marched up to Bofur with a determined look on his face and all the royalty he could muster with his hair looking like that and still in his bed clothes. 

“What are you laughing at?” He asked angrily and not really polite at all. Bofur laughed even more. Very dwarrow of him, very Durin of him.

“Did no one teach you to rein in that mane of yours?” He had asked, still joking. The boy deflated immediately with a sad look in his eyes. 

“My mother did.” He said in a small voice, looking at the floor, more tears threatening to fall and Bofur was confused for a moment until he remembered that the boy was raised by Noldorion and his wife before ever finding Gimli and Legolas. Shit, he had thought to himself, he couldn’t do anything right.

“Then,” Bofur said gently, trying to find something to say. He reached for the boy’s hand, “the least ye can do is do as she taught ya, so that ye can remind everyone that she made you who ye ‘re and how important she was. Same goes for your Father. Make them all remember him every time they look at ya.”

He knew he shouldn’t be so forward, but he pulled his comb from his pocket and put it in the boy’s hand. 

“Do you need any help?” He asked, but the boy shook his head. Bofur was relieved that he at least understood that braiding was for family only.

“My mother taught me well. I’ve seen you with Da… And Ada Legolas, but I don’t know who you are.” The boy said as he took in the details of the dwarrow’s face. He was so very curious about dwarrow… The ones that weren’t his Da and he had seen in Dale were so… Closed off. He was very interested in them since they were kin, but they didn’t seem to like him. This one though… Was different. 

“I’m an old friend of your Da. I met him when he was just a wee lad. Even smaller than you are now.” Bofur said and Finrod understood finally why this dwarrow gave him any attention. He knew his Da a long time. He was curious. Curious felt good, it was better than sad. 

“Really?” 

“Really.” The dwarrow answered and his voice was kind. “He was a little terror, you know.” There was a small laugh at that.

“Was he?” Finrod asked and it felt good to imagine his Da, so strong and wise, small and beardless like him. Did dwarrow have beards when they are young too?

“Yes. He used to run around Ered Luin with his Cousins like a hurricane and play pranks on everyone.”

The boy laughed and Bofur felt his heart warm over. This he could do. Make this lad a little lighter, a little happier.

“I used to play pranks on everyone. Back at the Greenwood. Before.” He said and the sadness threatened again.

“It must be hard being the only kid around.” Bofur said trying to take him away from the dark thoughts and at least that he knew about Elven children. 

The boy laughed again. “Well, no one knows, but Miro is just a big kid. We have loads of fun.”

He wanted to keep him laughing so he had this flash in his mind that reminded him of the laughter of Thorin’s boys. Fili and Kili. They thought the way cure any gloom was to play a prank. Some of their wickedness lifted Bofur’s heart and made the old dwarrow feel like he was eighty again. 

“So, what say you we wake him up and use horse hair to give very dwarvish mustaches to your older brothers?”

The boy laughed again, his eyes dancing at the idea of mischief, glittering with life and hope as he nodded and went running up the stairs to wake his friend up.

Bofur felt that he was just in the right place at the right time. There were too few dwarrow around that little one and maybe that was just what he needed. 

 

To be continued...


	26. Riding to the Mountain

The trip to the Mountain took less than he expected.

 

Bofur cleaned his tools and before long he was carving small figurines. A white horse on his back hooves. A raccoon on top a tree. A dwarf with red hair and a mighty axe. An Elf with blond Sindar Hair and a bow. An Elven Couple, the lady with corn blond hair crowning her head and back like a veil, the lord also Sindar, very proud, but kind in his expression. A Dwarf with black hair and a wooden shield, the small face of the small figurine set in a very Durin scowl. Another eleven Dwarves, all different aone from the other. One of them wearing a very familiar hat and carring a mattock. A Hobbit with brown hair, though Bofur could not tell with Bilbo, his hair was a tone when clean and another in the light and another yet if it was on the road. A Wizard with a pointy hat and a long gray beard. A Man with black hair and an imposing sword that in the stories was named Anduril. Another four Hobbits with different coloring. One with black hair, one blond, one ginger and one that was a bit burlier than the others. Finrod loved to see that there was a hobbit that also had hair color close to his own. Another Man, less tall than the other but who carried a horn. With that, the boy had a whole collection of them. Memories and Legends… The Nine Walkers, The Company of Thorin Oakenshield, his Deceased Parents, his living ones, his brothers, his Friends.

 

Gimli would tell the tale of the Nine Walkers too (with Legolas running commentary) and Bofur was glad to hear it from the source for the first time. It was so incredible, so much darker than their own tale. Of course there was a Dragon and fire and death and imprisonment. But the Tale of the One Ring… It was bleak and hopeless and he to this day did not know how they had actually done it. Gimli and Legolas were heroes and that was truth. But every time he heard the story Bofur thought of Bilbo. Bilbo who carried that poisonous thing around for so long and was not corrupted. Bilbo who was strong enough to let go. The mere thought of the Ring also made him think of Frodo and his heart broke for him. Bofur knew Hobbits and that one had been the strongest of them all. One small Hobbit who had carried the weight of the World on his shoulders.   

 

Bofur himself wove the tales of their Journey trying to bring Bilbo’s masterfulness of when he used to tell them. Bilbo was good with children, a hell of a storyteller, would have made a smashing Father too and then Bofur would think again of Frodo. In a way, he had been a Father to his poor nephew…

 

Bofur knew well what parts to omit so that the kiddies would not cry at the end, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. It would be unfair to those who actually lived it. Bofur couldn’t omit the death of Thorin… That of Fili and Kili, who were Finrod’s favorite characters in his tales. Bofur didn’t have it in him to omit the love between Tauriel and Kili, nor the secret romance between King and Hobbit. He told the boy all the secrets no one would put in the History books and was proud of himself for that. At least, someone would know the truth and not the watered down version Bilbo had written and passed on to Frodo and Sam. The version without the so called scandalous romance. He wondered if any would ever write the story of Legolas and Gimli… It couldn’t get more scandalous than that…

 

The boy understood the truths he shared and that was what really mattered. Understood the truth about Thorin’s illness and how he broke the madness and the curse of his line at the end. How he died to protect Bilbo.

 

He saw the epic kind of love every time he looked at his parents, so the lad had to understand the crazy things people do for love. An Elf and a Dwarf… What could be crazier than that! And most important Bofur wanted the kid to understand that those people in the stories… They were part of his family. That he may have lived for a few years in an Inn Keep made by humans but that his blood… His blood was Royal and wrought with greatness. His blood spelled of the stubbornness of Thorin Oakenshield and his leadership and his sacrifice. He was of the line of Durin. Both his parents had defied Sauron, fought wars, seen what few mortals or immortals have seen in Arda. They had conversed with Ents and fled from Balrogs.  Finrod Legolasion Son of Gimli was Elvish Royalty combined with Dwarrow Royalty, he was the heir of the future. He was a new beginning for both their people.

 

As they got to their destination, Legolas rode up to the Mountain with Gimli and Bofur himself at his right side, Bronwe and his nephews at his left. His elves, the elven warriors that followed them up to the mountain armed to their teeth, the ones that in the beginning Bofur thought were following them under orders of Celeborn, were camping in the former Desolation of Smaug. It then had pretty lush green grass and trees that would make for good camp so many years after dragon fire. Bofur learned on the road that most of those Elves had a pretty good reason to go to War with Thranduil. Most of them had lost someone important in the massacre the Elven King had made on the warriors that guarded the borders of the Greenwood. Bofur had never thought Elves could be as vengeful as Dwarrow. Scratch that, if he really thought about it, it made clear sense. Elves could hold a grudge as well as any dwarrow. The entire race of Elves and Dwarrow were on each other’s bad sides since the Elves of Doriath had that disagreement with the Dwarrows of Nogrod and Hell that had been ages ago. Literally.

 

Bofur looked at the Elven King, the one on their side, Gimli’s One as if he saw a ghost when he looked at him dressed in finery and riding in all his majesty up to the mountain seeking the counsel of the Thorin Stonehelm. He looked an awful lot with his father when dressed like that. His eyes though were never unkind. Never as cold as Thranduil’s. He would know. He had seen the ice that ran in the veins of the older Elven King.

 

As they stood at the gate, a dark-bearded dwarrow followed by two guards, came to welcome them.

 

“Welcome my lords.” He had said as they dismounted. They all had dressed as lords. Legolas had said before leaving camp that if they were to play this game of thrones they might as well do it right. “I’m Bodruith, Son of Borin, at your service. To what do I owe the pleasure of such illustrious visitors?” He bowed as was educated for any dwarrow. His eyes traveled, though, he was measuring his visitors. Trying to gather what they wanted and who they were. His look paused an impolite amount of time in Legolas. His eyes stopped though as he looked at the dwarrows of the group. At Gimli, he raised an eyebrow.

 

Gimli spoke first.

 

“I’m Gimli. At yours and your family’s. We seek an audience with King Thorin, called Stonehelm. ” Gimli said bowing back. Bofur still remembered how long it took to teach the lad some manners. Time well spent now that he was known for them.

 

Bodruith looked at him and snorted.

 

“So you finally banded with the Elves that declare war on the mountain. It was to be expected.” He said, disdainful of Gimli. Golwenin intervened, before any other could speak.

 

“Bodruith, Son of Borin, we came here not to speak to you, but to your betters. Our King would like to speak to your King.” Golwenin said gesturing to Legolas in the most humble of moves as if he himself was lucky to stand before the King. Bofur almost laughed, it didn’t even look like the lad that had been screaming and laughing around the Inn trying to get his younger brother so that he and Achardir could tickle him to death after waking up with horse-hair mustaches.

 

“King?” The dwarrow asked, snorting. “As I know, his father is still very much alive.”

 

“True. His rule, though, is being questioned by the White Council, thus one more reason we should speak to your King and not you, Master Bodruith.” Bronwe interrupted quickly, he was losing patience with this impertinent.

 

The dwarrow’s nose scrunched up as if he had smelled some something unpleasant.

 

“Please, follow me.” He said and started guiding them through the tunnels, but he didn’t look happy about it.

 

To be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it takes so much to write. I am a slow writer. Bt I hope you can follow us in this path!


	27. Thorin Stonehelm and those who follow Him

The Throne Room of the Lonely Mountain was just as Gimli remembered, he was judged there. Judged by being a degenerate. Condemned too. The lashing took place at a wooden dais in the market so that it would be more humiliating. There were no wall or safety handles around it. There was only one piece of furniture and that was the throne itself. It was constructed in dark shiny rock and looked extremely uncomfortable. Unless there was a  pillow beneath the King. The Arken Stone shone above the King’s head and it shone more brightly than the golden light that flooded all of the other rooms they had walked by as they entered the Mountain. The room was full of courtiers that stood behind the King as there were guards amongst the courtiers and also beside them. One on each side of their entourage.

 

As they entered the arrived they stood side by side. Legolas in front of them all with Gimli at his right side. Bronwe and Bofur at his left, his nephews at their right.

 

“Your majesty.” Bronwe, Golwenin and Achardir bowed before Stonehelm, as did Bofur on Gimli’s other side but Legolas didn’t. Legolas just nodded. Gimli felt weird, it was too much as if he was walking in an alternate universe where Legolas was his Father’s Prince and not Gimli’s Husband. It was a foreign sight. And it was silly but it hurt a little. Legolas though, focused his eyes on Gimli’s and that was enough to hold him back from bowing. He copied the nod Legolas gave and understood after why. In theory, now he was kind of Queen… They were the first warrior couple to ever be raised that high and Legolas already said he would take no wife. So he was kind of Queen. He didn’t know what to feel about it…

 

“Prince Legolas Thranduilion.” Said Stonehelm from his throne nodding back.

 

“King Thorin Stonehelm.” Legolas answered in the exact same tone. It only emphasized the equality between them.

 

“So you came to declare war on me? In name of your father?” The young King asked in the full throne room where there were dozens of courtiers and guards.

 

“No. I came offering my help.”

 

“I know well the kind of help Elves offer. Specially that of the Elves from the Woodland Realm. Thorin Oakenshield will never let me forget.” He said with a bitterness in his voice. A bitterness that spoke of a war too clear in the minds of the King and of its People. The bitterness of betrayal. That which rode the wings of the news of the Army which was on its way from Eryn Lasgalen.

 

 “Do not judge me by my father.” Legolas voice was calm and collected as everything about him in that hall. He looked like a true King and Gimli felt pride in his heart. It was funny to think that his Love was so ready for this. Thranduil had seen this potential, but had gone through all the wrong places to reach for it and there they were. Gimli had to think it a bit ironic, sad and full of grief, but ironic none the less.

 

Their King continued. “We are here because of his lack of judgment, he is renouncing to pay his war debts and forcing his people into more wars. It is unwise and inconsequent. He also slaughtered his own progeny. He is deemed mad by many, myself and mine included. I stand before you as an option. I stand before you offering to stand beside you when my father brings my people before your gates to waste their lives in a silly pursuit for power in times that should be of peace. I want to offer them an option. To side with me. So that they don’t have to die for an unfair fight brought on by a Kinslayer.”

 

“So this is your game.” Stonehelm answered without batting an eye. He used his position in the raised dais of his throne to seem taller and more intimidating, to make the Elf look less. Legolas though looked like a mighty light from the West dressed in his gray robes of velvet and a golden coat of silk, a silver circlet shining over his brow. “You come to offer me your Elves, so that I shall support your civil war against Thranduil with my soldiers so that you can sit your pretty buns on the throne.” Thorin accused pointing his finger rudely.

 

“You used to have a peace treaty with the Woodland Realm. One that was forged after the Ring War. I know the words by heart for the joy of knowing there would be peace between our peoples filled me.  What I’m asking is that you honor that. Honor that in name of the people of the Woodland Realm who would not wage war on Thranduil’s name no more. Considering that he has sinned against the Valar, his family, his people. I ask you to put your faith in a different King.” The Elf pleaded in the same even voice. He was polite and controlled as if the dwarrow had never mentioned his buns.

 

“I will not partake on your family troubles. I will not aid you in YOUR conquest of power.” Stonehelm answered, irreducible.

 

“Power… Cursed thing it is. If any understand such a thing it is us.” Gimli interrupted the sparing words of the Kings and glanced in Legolas’ eyes, their depths speaking without words, the lure of the Ring and its strength a memory shared. When he continued he turned his gaze turned to Thorin. “We waged war for the One Ring. We bled and we fought and we helped destroy it. You accuse Legolas of searching for power, of resorting to trickery to gain it, when in truth we resisted the biggest temptation of all. We said no to Sauron, a thing that we are not sure any in this blasted mountain which sits upon a dragon’s hoard would be able to do. If there is one person you should trust, King Thorin Stonehelm… It is him.”

 

“How dare you talk to the King, you miserable exile?” Screamed one of courtiers who stood in sidelines. He had long white hair and long white beard. He also had a hateful stare. It was Gimli’s own father.

 

Legolas’ eyes flashed at the new interloper, then, murderous. “He stands here by my side as my right hand, my strong hand. My husband and my Consort. Father to my Child and he will be respected as such.” Not all of the disrespect from the Dwarrow King could have raised such reaction.

 

“Child?” There was a huge commotion among all dwarrow that stood beside the King as the Hall broke in multiple exclamations of ‘Impossible!’, ‘Unnatural!’, ‘Inconceivable!’

 

“You permitted him to father a child and took it from its mother?” Questioned out loud one of the braver advisers.

 

Achardir was turning red at so much disrespect at his uncle, his King, Golwenin immediately took hold of his brother’s arm petting it gently before he could actually do harm to the whole situation.

 

“Such assumption is really disrespectful, King Thorin.” Golwenin said in his most placating voice. “And, not that it is any of your business,” he addressed the hall at large and turned back to address the King, “but a few male elves are capable of bearing children, one of which being our King.”

 

“Abomination!” Glóin screamed openly and Thorin cringed at the word. His chief Scribe who acted as hand of the King in most diplomatic matters, actually fainted in the sidelines. It was decidedly a diplomatic nightmare, the Elves would have every right of declaring war then if they wanted. Legolas’ tone turned very low, and his voice menacing. It promised death and pain. Gimli was reminded of the tone he spoke to Eomer all those years ago, their first flirting. He almost laughed… Only his daft Elf to flirt through menace.

 

“Glóin, Son of Gróin, we are from different races and we aren’t here to discuss biology. Though, if you address my son once as such I’ll ask for your head on the terms for my treaty with your King, I hope you comprehend that.” Legolas had said, his sapphire eyes glinting like the twin blades he was so fond of using.

 

“He would never!” Glóin exclaimed, affronted with the notion that Stonehelm would threaten his life, when he still thought of him like a kid he had raised to the throne at the event of Dain Ironfoot’s death.

 

“Glóin! Respect the Elf and specially respect his son. We are dwarrow, we respect family, you know that.” The King had answered firmly trying to reign in the disaster this meeting was turning into.

 

“Why?! Why should I respect his son??? He never respected mine!” The old dwarf kept spewing; his face an angry red, a thick vein in brow threatening to burst.

 

“Da!” Gimli let out without thinking and when he noticed the word that spilled from his mouth his heart broke because a father would never do with a son with Gloin had done to him. Legolas laid a hand on his shoulder and his eyes were kind as they met Gimli’s.

 

“Don’t you call me that, you little… Pervert!” The old dwarrow continued, his fury burning like a forest fire. He wanted to hit something, someone, so he advanced on Gimli intent on hurting the degenerate. For that was the only word in Gloin’s mind that fit someone that indulged in intercourse with Elves of all things.

 

There were guards holding Gloin back from going up to his former son and raining violence on him while Gimli’s face looked as if his heart was being thorn from his chest. The whole meeting was sour and Golwenin needed to do something besides holding his own brother back from punching someone, which would mean war.

 

“Didn’t he?” He raised his voice over the commotion and all in the room looked at him stunned, not really understanding his question. What the daft elf was talking about as all hell was almost breaking loose?

 

“Didn’t he respect your son?” Golwenin repeated his question, calmer, since everyone had decided to stand still and look at him instead of starting a battle in the middle of the throne room. All those who had looked turned a questioningly look at Gloin after the question.

 

Gloin sputtered, not exactly knowing what to answer but tried anyway. “He tainted him! Took him from us, put these ideas in his head!” 

 

“In my understanding, our King himself negated his house, his people, his station, all his duties, his family and his wealth for your son. He married him. He wears his braids proudly. He gave him a child of his blood. Raised him above all as his Royal Consort. Tell me where is there any disrespect.”

 

Bronwe laughed softly delighting in Golwenin’s line of thought. “Alas, he is right. And even if that isn’t enough… How can you believe your own son’s judgment so weak that he would let my King poison his thoughts? His Majesty the Royal Consort is very strong willed, very wise. And his voice is that most praised by our King. He will be the King’s hand in this agreement.”

 

Gloin fumed but before he could say anything Legolas spoke and his look and voice were so much like Thranduil’s that Gimli wanted to shake him out of it.

 

“I’ll have it no other way.”

 

And before anyone else could say word Stonehelm finally decided that Order was needed and that he had had enough of the whole circus.

 

“I understand and shall talk to your emissary in private to see what kind of bargain we can strike so that we can reach an understanding between us. The fact that you came here and were so offended by mine and even so have NOT declared war on us, clearly show your good will. I ask you to forgive the incautious fools that stand beside me for they don’t understand what is at stake here. I hope you can accept our hospitality.” The Dwarf King was so polite in his first attempt at it that Legolas didn’t say much more than:

 

“I thank you for it.”

 

And that was that.

 

To be continued...


	28. Of Loved Kin...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long, people. I have a few chapters ready and soon will upload them. They are short, but it wouldn't feel right to upload as if they were one. Please, bear with me.

The night the whole of the entourage of King Legolas entered the Mountain, was a night to remember.

All dwarrow stopped whatever they were doing to stand on the sidelines of halls, streets or elevated walkways. They came from all over, the kitchens and the mines, the market and the forges. They all had heard the rumors of the half-blood. They all wanted to see if it was true. The smallest member of the group stood flanked by Bofur from the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and a tall elleth that carried a bow. He was just a little bit smaller than a dwarrow and was dressed in a cloak that covered his head and most of his face. His form looked as if it was still to grow, but his body was far from stocky as most dwarrow children were. He didn’t have a beard yet either.

 

When they got to the wing where said entourage would stay, Legolas was finally able to pick up his child and hug him. All those who stood staring at his son as if he was some kind of curiosity in a Circus had been barred by Stonehelm’s guard at the entrance of the guest wing. As King he couldn’t hug his boy in front of everyone. It wouldn’t be respected by dwarrow since in their race the female cared for the children most. He sighed as he scented his child’s hair. It smelled of earth after a rain and newborn leafs covered in dew. He felt contented. After everything he had to swallow in that throne room it was good to have one of his reasons to fight in his arms. His boy hugged him tight and laid his head in Legolas’ shoulder. Soon he would be too big to be carried like this. For a moment he felt the bitter taste of his imprisonment on the back of his tongue. He felt his stomach revolt at it and inhaled his child’s smell once more. Finrod was there in his arms. The lost years were lost and no one could get them back. His child was in his arms. He felt a hand on the small of his back. A wide gloved palm with stocky fingers. Gimli. Without meaning to he felt his whole posture relax and feel at home.

 

Finrod and Gimli…

 

They were his home, his heart, his very life. His sanity. His core. The steel of his unbending will.

 

He could swallow the bitterest of poisons, brave unending wastelands, kill the biggest of mountain trolls or the most impressive of oliphants on his own. He could pledge his allegiance to a Dwarrow King who knew only to insult him and declare war on his own father, as long as he could have Finrod and Gimli by his side. Simple as that.

 

He knew how precious they were. And how fragile. And he wanted to keep them as far from this battle he possibly could, but he knew also that without them he would lose sight of things, important things. Like making this War about what Arda and the People of the Woodland Realm needed and not about petty revenge. If he hadn’t found them… Legolas knew he would have hunted his father down in the dead of the night, in a starless evening nonetheless so that Varda wouldn’t have to witness his crime, and murdered him in his bed committing the exact same crime of kinslaying and not caring an ounce about it. He wondered sometimes… If he had done just that if Noldorion would have been spared. His heart broke a little more for his brother, he had been such a better Ellon than he was. But the Fates decided that his people would get him instead of his brother. Because, in the end, they should get what they needed, and not what they deserved.

 

They needed someone who would do what had to be done. Someone who wouldn’t morn their Father. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was a sin but, by the Valar, he couldn’t help daydreaming about it.

 

He thanked Eru again for his son, for Love, his One.  How very dwarrow of him, he chuckled to himself at the thought and kissed Gimli’s cheek who laughed at being kissed, they all had been so tense, so deep in thought; he had missed Legolas bending a little for it. Their laughing lit the mood of the entire party, their walk lighter and their step sprite. The Hobbits used to have this power of making things easier during the quest and he smiled at the memory of them. His son hugged him tighter. His Family was his strength. They kept him clean from his own festering darkness. From his own growing pit of anger and malediction. Thanks to them Legolas had controlled himself, behaved like a King and they got to be inside the mountain; it had to count for something.

 

 To be continued...


	29. Just a Walk in the Mountain...

 Bofur was glad to be back home. Erebor was home. Erebor was for him every good thing to ever happen to him. It meant all the good friends and all the good fortune. Of course it also meant the lost friends. He will never forget Fili and Kili, he will never forget Thorin. And the Journey there would forever be the biggest adventure he ever took part in. He knew he was too old to be of relevance in this one, but he would keep the traditions, he would teach young Finrod, he would make his little marvel as dwarrow as it was already Elvish. He would advise Gimli. And he would fight too.

 

As the higher ups, Gimli, Legolas and Bronwe went to the Council room where the negotiations would take part, Bofur took the three Princes, the wee one and the adult ones to walk around the mountain. The older Princes had been banished from negotiations after Achardir had almost attacked someone in the throne room. Legolas knew their intentions were good and he mourned to have to leave Golwenin behind, but fair was fair, if one of them would not go, both were grounded. Achardir himself looked like a reprimanded child who would sometimes look at his brother like he had once again thrown him into trouble. Bofur could see them quite easily in his mind’s eye, both in their youth, Golwenin always in trouble due to his brother. He totally could understand the feeling, how many times he had to save Bombur’s arse from their Father’s wrath? He couldn’t even remember any more. Sometimes it felt like he spent his whole life looking out for his brother. Few knew, but they had entered the quest because Bombur had more children than he could afford. Spoiled and rude children that had no respect for their old uncle. They never gave him the time of the day.

 

He took the Elven boys all places he loved. He took them everywhere he had dreamed at taking his nephews when they were just ideas and a bump in their mother’s belly. He took them to the Hall of Kings, the Mines, the Library, the Market… He showed little Finrod the tunnel where they waited for Bilbo as he defied the Dragon. Finrod loved that story and for him, seeing the places where it happened was like a dream. He felt more love for that boy than he ever had for his nephews. He was so kind and so lonely. Even if he had older brothers the age difference was so abysmal. His older brothers seemed young, even thought they were probably as old as Bofur if not older. They had young hearts though, their first grief the loss of their parents that had sown them together as nothing else could. They were a tight family. They had Legolas as their guide, as the one adult that could help. And Legolas went nowhere without Gimli, so the older boys learned to respect dwarrow. And in a way even love old uncle Bofur.

 

But of course, Bofur should have known, nothing with this Family was ever easy so it couldn’t go without any trouble.

 

A mere walk around the Mountain couldn’t be simple.

 

They lost Finrod in the Forges.

 

To be continued...


	30. War Council

The Council Room wasn’t so spacious; it was a lot smaller than the Throne Room. The chairs looked plush and comfortable, like they were made for unending meetings which they probably were if Legolas knew anything about Dwarves and their stubbornness. Maybe if he had a Council Room one day, he had mused, he should also ask for comfortable chairs. Gimli and Bofur certainly would be part of his advisers and they were Dwarrow after all…

 

There were heavy tapestries covering the walls with battle scenes of the Battle of Five Armies and the Reclaiming of Erebor. There were carpets on the floors and a big oval stone table in the center of it made of polished amethyst. Sturdy and huge, showing the purple and lilac tones in each line of its natural make. The center of it being the natural chapel. It was beautiful and Legolas would have smiled at the ingenious craft of Dwarves if he hadn’t noticed also that there were no windows at that room. For a moment Legolas felt the weight of the mountain around him, he knew they weren’t in Moria, but the feeling that clawed in his chest felt similar. The panic of the time he spent in the Hole back in his father’s Dungeons also rose like a curse in his chest and for a moment his breath started to become short and he was sweating. Gimli’s warm palm resting flat on his lower back, though, brought calm to his distressed heart. He held onto the feeling of that touch like a lifeline.  He was able to sit, then, and behave like his panic wasn’t almost overwhelming. He decided to focus on anything else, but it. He couldn’t afford to show his weakness. In his soul, he was thankful for Gimli once more.

 

Thorin Stonehelm was already in his sit at the head of the table, at his right sat Gloin, at his left the chief Scribe. He gestured for Legolas to sit opposite at the other end. Legolas sat, and Gimli also, on his right side, directly opposite to his father. Bronwe sat at his left and Tauriel stood by the door at guard beside the guarding Dwarrow that also stood there silently.

 

The chair was, indeed, very plushy, like the seat was filled with goose feathers. It unnerved him. It felt like he would sink into it and never be able to get himself up again. In the hearth there was a fire going and the air was stuffy and Legolas felt difficulty breathing. He was still sweating more than he ever did. Not that he showed it. He pointedly glared at the rings he wore on his fingers as a way to concentrate in maintaining his face neutral, they glinted in the light of fire. He hated them. As he hated the whole finery he had been donning from the day he had arrived in the Mountain. Kingship turned out a lot harder than Legolas had expected. He finally could empathize with Aragorn. Looking royal was highly impractical, he missed wearing his good old traveling leggings instead of robes. He would give up the plushy seat for a high tree-branch any day.

 

Bronwe seemed very much at home. He always did. Anywhere. As if he was always comfortable. As if nothing could bother him. His smile was soft and it innerved Legolas even more. He was feeling weak, but his face didn’t betray a muscle. He was Thranduillion, after all. Even if banished he had been.

 

The words went back and forth with a politeness that was really astounding, but there was no agreement anywhere in sight. Gimli took care of them, observing all Dwarrow etiquette, and as most things Dwarrow it is quite detailed… and long.

 

Legolas refuses to forfeit his dignity and admit that he was relieved when they were unceremoniously interrupted by strong bald Dwarrow with a beard white as the first snow. He was huge for a Dwarrow, and he felt familiar. Of course he had been younger at the time they’ve met, but Legolas couldn’t forget such upstanding and shiny head in which he had so swiftly stood on while shooting those orcs. The Dwarrow in question had had a gray beard at the time but he looked just as muscled and hardy as he had then. The former-prince had to notice, though, that this Dwarrow, one of which he knew to be of the Thirteen from the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and could not for the life of him remember the name of, was covered in bruises, scratches and small wounds that showed he had recently seen battle.

 

“Dwalin?” He heard King Stonehelm question in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here so soon? You have your mission!”

 

“Mission, my King, we failed to accomplish. Most of my warriors lay slaughtered in the field, sir, they come in too great a number!! We need to call for all the help we can get!” Said the old battle-hardy Dwarrow, almost out of breath, as if he had ridden day and night from the battle field to let his King know what they are dealing with.

 

He finally noticed the rest of the people in the room and ashamedly took a breath, deciding to try for a little courtly behavior. He bowed quickly at the King, nodded grudgingly to Gloin and when his eyes rested on the rest of the assembled guests they stopped on Gimli and all the others were ignored. He smiled warmly and widely as if for a moment he had forgotten his woes. He tried to hide it behind a cof and a hand and looked once more at his King.

 

 “I greatly support your idea, my King, of bringing back Gimli. No matter the reasons for his banishment, he is the best Warrior of his generation and would greatly improve the morale in the barracks. He had seen the worst War this World has seen. I’ll be glad to have him watching my back.”

 

Legolas fought hard to conceal his mirth as he saw the stunned look on Stonehelm’s face and the livid expression on Glóin’s face. He was even able to forget all about the terrible feeling that had weighted him down that far through the council. First the King had recognized his love for Gimli public in the Throne Room and had respected their son. Then this hero of Erebor, someone that looked as honorable as Bofur, maybe even more of a warrior than his new friend, was totally supporting Gimli’s presence. Legolas felt his heart warm over, Gimli was a Dwarrow and Dwarrow without kin always felt less than they were. And he felt their kinship in the glance exchanged. The more he lived amongst them the more he learned how much Dwarrow could be like Elves, there were good ones and greedy ones, and loyal ones and weak ones. Above all, there were corruptible ones, but there were also the faithful. This one looked very Loyal.

 

“With your leave, King Thorin, I would ask for a moment, so that you could talk to your General and fill him in on the situation. I’m very sorry, Master Dwalin, but Gimli is part of my Company. My husband and my Second.” Legolas explained with a kind smile.

 

The older dwarrow looked at Stonehelm as if he was shocked and annoyed at the news.

 

“I knew it was too good to be true.” He muttered to himself under his breath, too low for the non-elvish presences in the room and once again Legolas had to fight hard against the chuckles that bubbled in his breast. Bronwe was not so controlled but offered the lame excuse about a remembered jest.

 

“I don’t truly care.” Dwalin answered Legolas in a high and serious voice dead set on being understood, his eyes though went to his King begging him to be listened to. “We need all the help we can get, your Elvish Majesty. It doesn’t matter if it comes from Elves or glittering pixies!”

 

The old Dwarrow stayed there and glared at the room at large waiting for anyone who would dare to challenge his word. No further discussion was needed. Soon Stonehelm was asking Legolas the best way to use his archers on top of the wall and Gloin kept silently seething at the side as Gimli  and the Chief Scribe discussed details for accommodating the Elven soldiers. At the end of the meeting they had a defensive strategy at the ready and a new united front in face of the army that marched their way.

 

To be continued...


	31. The Song of the Mountain...

One minute he was there and the next he was no more. Sick with worry, Bofur and the lad’s brothers searched like crazy. Everywhere, for long desperate hours thinking the worst, they searched. Bofur’s worry took his imaginings to great and deranged lengths thinking he had been kidnapped by Elf Haters, or enemies of the King, or Gloin’s servants… He was already feeling his hands dirty with Finrod’s blood when he heard the singing. It was high, clear in its delight. Awash with happiness and full of the swing that was natural to Dwarrow. The voice held also an edge of youth that could only belong to a child. And though it carried all the rhythm of the Mountain’s Song, it sounded in notes too high for any Dwarrow to reach. It felt like crystal bells tolling away with laughter.

 

It was the perfect marriage of Elf singing and Dwarrow swagger.

 

Achardir and Golwenin almost melted in relief. Bofur let out a cackle. Of all of the places to find the lad. It had to be Gimli’s child to find him singing in a tavern in the illustrious company of the drunk smiths of the most reliable kind. He took both older Elves and showed them the place, found them a table and produced from under his hat his very own flute to join in. The music of the Mountain was natural to all of Mahal’s children, even those who looked pale, slender and quite Elvish.

 

To be Continued...


	32. Of Family...

The word about that night at the tavern spread around like wild fire in dry hay, the story about the boy who looked Elf, sounded Elf but understood the Song of the Mountain.

His red hair already grew legendary for its similarity to Gimli’s colouring and his appreciation for good song and good food definitely dwarrow, or so the rumors said.

 

Some of Durin’s Folk looked at it like the strangest thing seen. Others looked completely scandalized by the idea. Others yet, the ones that had actually stayed until late that night singing and dancing with the boy and teaching him about all things Dwarrow, were completely smitten with the child. Some religious types were saying the boy was sent by the Valar to sow the rift between Elves and Dwarrow in this time of horrid war. Some were not very happy about the rumor at all and insisted on saying that it was ridiculous.

 

The truth was that it was good gossip and everyone was talking. Nori’s betting pool was never this busy before and he couldn’t say he wasn’t satisfied. The house always wins.

 

He had heard the stories. He had heard of it the second Legolas and Gimli entered the mountain and knowledge was one thing. He had a whole lot of knowledge. Nothing happened in that Mountain that he didn’t know about. But, actually seeing Bofur with the child at the Tavern and hearing his laugh was another thing altogether.

 

Exactly like knowing they would kick Gimli out of the Mountain seven years ago and actually witnessing his lashing from the sidelines was different. He still remembered that day. He watched the procedures from the ground hidden by his cloak and hood and the crowd around him that booed and threw things. He could remember the smell. The rotten eggs, the putrid tomatoes and cabbages and the underlying smell of blood and misery. The sounds were also clear in his memory. Gloin himself counted each lash he laid on his son’s naked shoulders and back in a loud voice that was heard above the cheering crowd throughout the Market square. The crack of the leather whip with bladed tips was sickening, but the worst part was Gimli’s cries. He heard it all, he counted them, committed them to memory like the guilt he felt for not doing anything. It was a dagger to his heart. He wasn’t close to the kid. Barely knew him. Nori’s talent with the young stopped at his own little brother and even with him he hadn’t been that popular. Dori had always been better at that. But Dori was gone, as was Ori and he had lost too much in his life to not feel affronted by Gloin’s treatment of his own. Dori had complained all his life about Nori’s life choices, but he had never betrayed him. Never turned on him or turned him in.

 

He remembered his own pain, and how he only felt it when he was standing there watching it. He remembered looking in the eyes of one Chief of Guard Dwalin and seeing his own pain reflected back to him tenfold. Dwalin had known the kid. Dwalin had seen in Gimli, Fili and Kili, the boy’s best friends growing up, the nephew he lost to the Dragon, the son he was never able to father.

 

And like him… He had had to stand and watch.

 

He didn’t believe Dwalin would watch this time. Not with his lost almost son and a possible almost grandchild. Nori hadn’t known the kid, but Gloin had made a grave mistake shunning his own family.

 

Nori was all about family.  

 

 

To be Continued...


	33. Of a Star King and his Dark Night... Also of Elven Grudges

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle is finally upon us.

The first look they got from the army of the Woodland Realm, Bofur had a flashback of the fatidic siege of the Lonely Mountain that followed the Fall of Smaug. They were just numerous and organized and glittered as the sun reflected their golden armors and white capes. Their form was flawless and graceful. They looked exactly the same as they did so many years ago with Thranduil at point riding his Elk in his silver armor. And that was something else that thrummed deep into Bofur’s core. He was gray and old. And they looked exactly the same. Not a hair out of place. Like a beacon of hope. Bofur felt himself hate that elf a little more. How could he be so… Heartless. It didn’t matter. He was already at the plain, and he was out for blood with his sadistic second son at his side. A broken mirror image to Legolas.

 

The army moved with practiced perfection… As one. They looked unflinching, unfeeling as if ready to this senseless bloodbath. He could have been fooled by their front if he had been the same Dwarrow he had been so many years ago in his first face off with an Elven Army. He wasn’t. He had lived long days and nights in the company of Elves. Learned a lot about them. And in a way they didn’t look so scary then. They were living creatures with flaws. Just like the others. They just were better at hiding them. And being creatures of mainly light… When they fell? Boy, did they fall hard and low. Bofur understood them so much more then.

 

He could see the signs of nervousness then, the fear of their leader. He could see it because there wasn’t any on his side. The Galadhrim that followed them were fierce and they trusted Bronwe and respected Gimli, their eyes true in their admiration of Legolas. Theirs was an Elven army ready to die for the honor of a good cause! It didn’t hurt either that there was an army of dwarrow with them too.

 

And the head of their army was indeed impressive… His King looked like the brightest star in the sky over his white horse. His armor made of silvery and golden metal, his cape was that which was gifted to him by the White Lady. The travel coat was known to change color with the situation and at the moment they rode to meet Thranduil it almost shone like it was made of white light. A Beacon of Hope. His war braids had been done by Gimli in an intricate dwarvish design and his armor had mithril in it as well as distinct traces of Gimli’s craftsdwarrowship. Runes of Gimli’s making in Kuzdhul. Stonehelm and his courtiers had almost swallowed their own tongues when they had seen their secret language adorning an Elf.

 

Gimli in his turn wore Elvish braids in his beard and hair, thin and numerous as he had never seen before, interwoven in new patterns, simple patterns, so different than his normal style. The beeds were wood and were made by Legolas’ own hands too, like it was the custom between dwarrow.

 

Their love was branded in their eyes, their armors and the way they rode together, stubbornly refusing a pony for Gimli.

 

And if the King was a Star, Gimli was the darkness of the Night, his shadow and his protection.

 

Gimli’s armor was dark like Thorin’s had been during the Siege, the same color as Stonehelm’s Raven Crown carrying all symbols of his Durin heritage. All geometrical lines. Gimli’s father and Erebor’s King may have not liked it, it spoke too much of who Gimli was to the People and what he had done for Arda, they indeed had hated to see him donning it, but Dwalin had found the armor in his treasure and he had gifted it to him. Dwalin was old and grumpy without his brother to call him on it and like Bofur himself he was respected as a hero of their race for freeing Erebor of Smaug. Dwalin had no one left without Thorin and the boys, without his brother who had perished in Kazad-dhum. He had kept Lady Dis company, always, but he always had doted on Gimli when he had been a child. He had been the one to teach the lad how to hold an Axe. No one would defy him as he presented his gift and treated Gimli as he had always done, like his own blood. He had been Captain of the Guard for far too long. Dwalin had taught wee Gimli everything he knew of axes and turned him into the hero he became. If Gloin was enough of an idiot to spurn his own son, his loss, thought Bofur, and Dwalin seemed to have decided to step up and make his allegiances pretty clear. He even decided to fight beside the Elves at the point. He rode beside Bofur.

 

Looking at the nervous looking army, Bofur thought about the whole history of the battles and grudges between Dwarves and Elves.

 

He had always thought the Elves had a problem with Dwarrow specifically, but his time with so many of them just served to show him that Elves were just… Like that. They were like that even between themselves! Let alone with other races!

 

Silvans, like Tauriel, were wild things that liked to live intensely. They were bold and daring and Warriors before anything else. They lived in the woods communing with nature and they were not builders. They served the Sindar, like Thranduil and Legolas, who were wise and knowledgeable and considered Noble. They built the structure, not only physical but also societal in which the Silvan lived, Galadriel and Celeborn standing over the Galadhrin in the same way, since the Galadhrin were also Silvan. The thing is that the Nobles of the Galadhrin were from the West, Noldor and Teleri, so they were deemed more civilized than the Silvans from the Greenwood. That’s because the Nobles of the Greenwood, the Sindar never crossed the Sea to the West, never met the Valar. So they were scorned by the Noldor and the Teleri. Noldor like Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel. Teleri like Lord Celeborn. Who were all very Noble. So Noble that according to Finrod, Gimli’s White Lady and the Lord of Lórien had been around since before the Sun even existed. And that is the thing with Elves, their history isn’t only in books and memories of kin like it happens with Dwarrow, there were still living Elves that remembered all, who had been there. There weren’t many “cover up”s in their history. And that’s why they were a race with so many grudges. The Sindar in their turn kind of looked down on the Noldor because they had had a War amongst themselves because of the Silmarils, and they also had been cursed by the Valar because they were Kinslayers and the word was always spilled with contempt and disgust every time it left the lips of any Elf he knew. So they were guilty of a mighty crime. Which brought him to their own battle. Elves from Lórien, aligned themselves to a Sindar King who had a truce with a Dwarven Kingdom to oppose another Sindar King that had turned on his own Kin. How sick was all that.

 

They were ready, though.

 

The news of the Audience in the Throne Room and Finrod’s little Escapade had spread around Erebor. The news of Gimli’s return reached far and wide dividing opinions greatly. Some were glad to have a warrior like him on their side, others were disgusted by the mere mention of his name. 

 

The thing is that Bofur himself had chosen his side. As did Dwalin, and surprisingly Nori.

 

Bofur didn’t like to acknowledge that he was that old, but old he was and considered by many as venerable and wise. Dwalin was almost seen as a God of War and Nori King of all Secrets in the Mountain. And even those that were disgusted by Gimli couldn’t deny his talents for Battle.

 

With the support of Stonehelm they were a mighty force amongst their peers and respected as such. Thus the army of the Lonely Mountain stood behind them, ready to stand by justice, or just to kill some Elves, hopefully the right ones…

 

When Thranduil’s army arrived at plain just beyond the Mountain, Legolas sent a rider with a white flag and asked for Parlay.

 

To be continued...


	34. Parlaing Kings and Dark Joy

Dwalin didn’t like it one bit. Gimli even less. 

Bronwe was of the opinion that the time for talking was over and that he and his Elves were pretty much ready to spill Thranduil’s blood. Achardir was banished from the meeting by his own brother because he knew he would end up attacking their grandfather. Golwenin himself wasn’t sure he wanted to go. Tauriel said that even though she pretty much hated Thranduil she would not ever let her Lord-King alone with her former liege. Gimli agreed with that whole heartedly, his Legolas wasn’t going there alone, he would never leave his One alone near that bastard. 

Nori was game for everything and Bofur didn’t mind but there couldn’t be many with the King. It was just Parlay in the middle ground between the two armies.

Dwalin, Gimli, Stonehelm, Legolas, Bronwe and Tauriel rode up to the plains under the tense eyes of all present, especially Elven archers from both sides, Archardir was personally in charge of the archers and his eyes trained on their emissaries. The tension spread around them all as the mists covered the Dead Marches. From the other side came four riders, the King Thranduil and Prince Gilion. 

“Well, well, well… If it isn’t the traitor.” Said Gillion. His father only glared at him in reprimand.

“It is not your place to speak.” The Elven King said to the Prince, calm. To the others he said politely, “You will forgive my son. He is not used to his place as my heir as of yet.” 

“We can all understand that since you just killed your other one.” Answered Gimli in an aggressive manner. He still remembered every agonizing tear he had to clean from the tortured faces of his lover and son.

“The on goings within my realm are none of your concern, Naugrim.” 

“That’s where you are wrong, your Majesty. It is much my concern if it will make you march on my Kingdom with your army!” Stonehelm said, very exasperated with the whole situation. Thranduil had always grated on his nerves, then more than ever. 

“Oh, do not worry yourself about it; my reasons for marching on your Kingdom are quite known and totally your responsibility, Thorin.” The Elven King affirmed, mildly. “You know, you are not worthy of that name.” He continued, his tone was calm and collected as if he talked about the weather. “Oakenshield, for all his failings, conquered Erebor, where you so regally hold court, with a Company of Founteen and the help of a Fisherman. He had heart, I’ll admit to that. You, on the other hand… Are just your father’s son, sitting in a throne that was left for you, taken with the blood of others, and even worse than Dain, you still live in the shadow of his Iron Foot.” Said the Elven King with cruelty. “I want that which belongs to me. The Necklace with Gems of Starlight. Nauglamír. That which was stolen from us.” He demanded from all, looking the Warriors in the Eyes.

“Those have never belonged to you!” The Dwarven King answered in anger.

“They belonged to my house!” Was the answer from the Kinslayer.

“Your word against mine.” Stonehelm said, but let his head fall in defeat, as if knowing this all was kind of ridiculous of them. His mane of brown hair with hints of red resisted the wind that blew against them as the hair of all elves present were thrown in their faces despite all the braiding. “Would you not wage war if we relinquished it? Not that I know of its whereabouts, if it was in the Mountain I sure would have recognize it, but… ” The Dwarrow King was really trying to make peace, it was clear in the eyes of all present.

“No,” Insisted the Elven King, unrelenting in his will to cause more rifts between them. “Your grievances against my people too long had gone unpunished.” 

“Grievances? I’m very much sure I do not know what you speak of, but if you want to talk about grievances, why not talk about yours?” Thorin questioned. “You are breaking all treaties you personally have signed. Throwing your honor into pig shit. You have murdered allies that have fought beside you against the hordes of Sauron! Or have you conveniently forgotten about that too? Of dying side by side for Arda and Peace in the Land?” 

Legolas felt himself sign. He felt ashamed for being of the same blood of Thranduil. He felt hate for him, rage and thirst for vengeance. He kept his silence or he would kill him. This all felt useless. It didn’t look as if they were any close to agreeing in not engaging each other in War. He felt as if it was all wrong… A world where Elves could not be reasoned with and Dwarrow were trying for sense. It felt like the end of times. Like he had been lied to since his childhood… And he decided that it was too late to mourn any of this. He had to be prepared. He would find Thranduil in the field of battle. And make sure to avenge his brother. Noldorion had never lied to him after all and died for that. He would cut his father’s head off and bring it to his son and nephews.

“They were usurpers of my land like this pretender amongst you!” Thranduil raged pointing at Legolas. “No matter, unless you came here to surrender your land and my necklace, I will have my war!” He spit at Stonehelm, in barely contained anger, no compassion and Bronwe’s thoughts turned for the dark, blood lust filling them. His King, his sire didn’t even raise to bait. He didn’t even twitch an eyebrow.

Bronwe was satisfied. Legolas coldness could be commended. It spoke of no hesitation and it delighted him. He smiled all his way back to the mountain where they would wait for the Mad King to step into range and rain arrows on his army. He even laughed as all of his companions seemed tense and worried on their saddles. He hadn’t come for peace. He had come to battle aside these Naugrim for a chance to kill the Kinslayer and he just got that. He laughed harder and maniac.

He gazed at his Lord again and smiled at him. The one he had pledged his allegiance to, Legolas Thranduillion. He had bowed to him for his vengeance, but the more he rode beside him the more he understood. That Elf seemed like a good place to bet his efforts. That Elf had seen too much. That Elf had resisted all temptations, battled a Balrog, crossed Moria. And he didn’t bat an eye at the prospect of killing his own Mad Father. When he had to thrust Kingship in his hands he had known that he was more than he appeared. A good King understood how heavy the Crown really was. And the more they rode together, the more he saw in the silence, in the unwielding nature of his love for those around him, that this was an Elf worth following. That look he saw on his King’s face as they rode back to the Mountain? That placid calm that graced the beautiful features of young King Legolas was one he knew well. That look on his Lord Celeborn’s eyes spelled blood and vengeance. 

And that filled Bronwe’s heart with dark joy.

 

To be continued...


	35. War

Finrod was seven. Only seven. His parents both thought he was too young to have anything to do with the War, he had already been traveling with the army and hearing too much about War. He had also heard all the terrible things his grandfather did. They had all voted for him to be kept inside the Mountain as a good boy. He would have many, many years to learn of War… He was of Elven heritage after all… If he chose to… He could even outlive Ada Legolas. It was one of the sad things he learned with Ada Legolas. That he would certainly die. Differently from all other Elves, Ada Legolas had fallen in love with Da Gimli. And Da… Da was mortal. Da would grow grey and old like Uncle Bofur and Uncle Dwallin and die. Like mortals do. Like Ada Noldorion and Nanneth. And Ada Legolas explained… When Elves fell in love… It was for eternity. To lose their Ones… It broke their heart. And a broken hearted Elf had only two ends… To fade or to go mad. Finrod, like the Peredhel he was, could choose. Like Elrond and Elros chose. To be mortal and die, like Elros. Or to be ever-lasting like most elves who fell in love with their own species, like Elrond. Finrod knew he would never be completely Elven. He would never fit in… Not completely. But the more he learned about his Dwarrow half, more pride he took in it. No matter all the bad things his grandfather used to tell him about Naugrim. His grandfather was a Liar and a Kinslayer. He hated him. He had killed Ada Noldorion. He had killed Naneth. He had hurt Ada Legolas. Finrod hated him. He hated him! 

He wanted to look upon his face. He wanted to understand what was War. The think they all spoke of with such dread. 

For that, he escaped his rooms in the mountain. He was silent and small. Dwarrow were too noisy so none of the other Elves saw or heard him. He had learned to evade his guardians, he had done so before, he did it again. He almost felt bad for Miro. Almost.

They had already started when he managed to escape his quarters… There had been arrows raining on the elves down on the ravine. The archers hadn’t stopped shooting and they were so good at that. But it was such a horrible sight. To see someone walking or running forward a moment and then suddenly get caught by the arrow. He was not as far sighted as most of his kin, but he did see the scared expressions on their faces. Their pain, their fear. 

He looked down and there were swords drawn, and axes swirling in beautiful arches. But they were all bathed in red, sticky in blood. All of them out of breath, dirty… Fighting for their lives. A lot of people on the floor. Unmoving. Eyes open but sightless. Brothers against brothers. Elves against Elves. Of course there were dwarrow there too, half of all fighters were dwarrow, but it also felt wrong. His Da was Dwarrow, his Adar, both of them, his Naneth, his brothers, they were Elves. It felt wrong. They should be together. Like his parents, like his friends, his uncles, his family. And all this ugliness, this death… All of it his grandfather’s fault. He sobbed without even understanding why. 

When Miro found him, he didn’t fight him. Finrod just walked back to his rooms trying desperately to forget what he had seen. He knew the sight of the battle field would haunt him forever. 

Elves only reach their adolescence at fifty years old, their maturity at a hundred. Dwarves are adults only at 40 and there they had a toddler who had seen war. Miro could have cried when he found the child. His innocence was a bit lost then, the shine in his eyes less bright. Miro felt as if he had failed his King. 

He stayed with the child after geting him back to his rooms, though. He wouldn’t let the boy out of his sight. No more War for wee Finrod. 

And Finrod loved him a bit more for that.

 

To be continued...


	36. Reckoning

Gimli and Legolas were in the thick of it. 

No matter if they were Kings, or if they had a whole army with them, they were warriors at heart and had no fear of facing an army head on. They threw themselves there. They had stared death in the eye. They had faced a Balrog, creature of Morgoth. They had charged the Black Gates of Mordor. They feared nothing. They killed and worked in perfect synchronicity. It was as if those who fought them battled an eight limbed creature in constant motion, with enormous strength and astounding swiftness. The perfect marriage of Dwarrow and Elven. Full trust that one would guard the other’s back. 

It was the reason they had fallen for each other in the first place. Their admiration for each other’s skill in combat. That was what commanded respect and then little by little, the working relationship turned to something else as they bled, and laughed and cared for their friends together.

Smiling when their eyes crossed, they still counted. As they always had. For good time’s sake. As a game, as a deranged courtship, as their shared madness involved them in their lust for blood as it did in their lust for one another. Folie à Due. Madness Shared by Two.

Blades and axe and arrows flying… Glinting in the sun. 

Searching for the Kinslayer, thirsting for their vengeance.

In the deep of his heart, Legolas wished he could find Gloin there too. That he could take his head as well as his Father’s. He was excited that at least one of them had made a mistake big enough to justify them killing him.

No matter how Bronwe had said they shouldn’t risk themselves. No matter that Golwenin said they should be careful. They were warriors first. They weren’t poets like Bilbo, they weren’t healers like Aragorn, they were born and raised for War. It was their nature. And they were glad to be of service. First at the War of the Ring and then to right a great wrong. For that was what Noldorion’s death was. That was what the fear written in Legolas’ people’s faces was. A GREAT WRONG.

And he wasn’t born for Kingship but King he would be if it meant to right that Great Wrong. And that was why he bled, and why he killed. 

At finally meeting his father at field, he felt his body sag with relief. 

The Valar would not deny his reckoning.

He pointed his blades at the King. Thranduil had always found shameful that Legolas would favor the weapons of a hunter in place of a sword which should be the weapon of a King. Legolas was no King. Not really. Not in his heart. He may have been declared so, but Legolas was a hunter, a Warrior. He killed his first spider when he was 89. 

He smiled at his Father and the ellon glared at him in rage. 

Gimli’s presence was calming beside him. He looked at his dwarf.

They didn’t need words. All through their life together, their love was written into silences. Their glances spoke louder than any words. Their first kiss in Helm’s Deep before battle... There hadn’t been heartfelt confessions or declarations of undying love to precede it. There was only grief for Aragorn and desperation reflected upon their gazes. They begged the other to not be next. And after that lips had found one another. Hands had found armor and flesh and skin and hair. Love and despair had pushed them. And they never regretted. Not after the whip, not after hole in the ground, not after being shamed, not after being hated, not after losing and finding their son. 

In Gimli’s eyes he saw that his love understood. No one would interfere; Gimli would make sure of it. The King of the Woodland Realm had a debt and Legolas was there to call upon it. 

There was a clash of blades and lightening pierced the sky followed by the rumble of thunder. It had been a fine morning as they started their war. The weather had turned and soured into black skies as if the Valar’s rage was about to pour upon them into storm. 

The King of the Wood was fast but Legolas was faster. They both had fought the War of the Ring, but Legolas had always fought against the worse odds.

“You shall bleed for betraying your King!” Screamed Thranduil in rage, as he managed to get a big cut through his son’s defenses. Legolas’ felt the sting on his side, but didn’t touch the wound, he knew it was bleeding. 

“You don’t have in your body blood enough to shed in atonement for your sins.” Was the answer given bitterly by the younger ellon. Legolas wanted revenge, true, but he knew, no matter what, he couldn’t lose his cool. His brother was dead, but his people needed saving from the monster which sported the face of an elf. He had to be a bit dwarrow like his love, like his son. He had to endure, survive.

The blows were exchanged in furious rhythm. Sometimes even too fast to the eyes of the mortal. Thranduil was one of the best swords masters in Arda, but Legolas hadn’t faltered before the Bane of Durin nor before any Horde of Orcs. He kept his steel sharp against his father’s blade and soon the King of the Wood was also hurt. 

“You… You destroyed our family!” The King continued holding his bleeding shoulder.

“Me? King of the Wood, you did that.” Legolas said as he thrusted his blade against that of the King. “You tried to change what you knew not, you trusted the traitorous son and killed the loyal one. You left me in a dungeon, weak and pregnant, waiting for me to die!”

“If I knew you were pregnant with that little half-naugrim abomination, I would have cut you open instead!” Thranduil said.

Legolas’ blood burned in righteous fury as he used his father’s momentary distraction to pierce his side under the armor. They had been so close, his father’s sword almost opening his throat. It was distraction enough. One of his knives barely kept the sword form him as the other was buried to the hilt into the King’s side. He made sure to twist it. When Legolas released him, the King fell to his knees. His legs no longer strong enough to carry his weight.

“Finish it!” He egged his son on. If he should die, than better it be in the field of battle. 

Legolas raised his knife a little more and poised it just at the King’s neck. “Call back your army. Order them to stop.”

“I fear you not!” Was the deranged King’s answer.

“You should. Mandos is not kind to Kinslayers, the Noldor stand proof of that.”

“Then kill me and we shall face him together.”

Legolas’ hand trembled as he held the blade. It had never happened before. Not once in his 2939 years. He had wanted retribution for SO long, for SO much but even so he hesitated. The ellon still was his blood. His father. 

A gloved hand stayed his. His beloved’s short fingers stopped him. Gimli looked into his eyes and smiled kindly and lovingly at his soft heart. 

“I love you, ghivashel.” He said and there was so much love in those words that Legolas released a breath he knew not to be trapped into his breast. 

Gimli turned to the King of the Wood. On his knees, the proud elf could be looked down by the dwarrow and that was oddly satisfying. 

“You are no kin of mine.” The dwarf said and swung his mighty battle axe in a wide practiced arch that carried all the pain he had seen inflicted on his loved ones by this ellon. 

The blond head rolled on the dirt.

The headless body sprayed blood all over them.

“It’s done.” Legolas said, relieved. 

Free. 

And thus, they were done with the War. 

 

To be continued...


	37. Foul Tasting Victory

When Thranduil’s body hit the ground, the whole of his army kind of stopped. They hadn’t been fighting for him. They had been fighting not to go to the dungeons. They were fighting so as not to be oathbreakers. With the King dead there was no reason to continue fighting.

Legolas voice had raised above all. His white cape, his silvery armor, his face and golden hair were all covered in Thranduil’s blood. That and mud. Gone was the look of the righteous hero. He was tainted. But it seemed that even the elements knew how wrong that was. A strong summer shower decided to soak them just after the battle started dwindling. As if to wash the grime of the whole situation. 

“All who surrender now will be given a chance. We shall not hold prisoners. We are all Free Folk of Arda. Brothers against Sauron.” He said loudly and Thorin Stonehelm didn’t look happy about that in the least. He looked as if he pretty much wanted to throw all of the survivors in his dungeons. Just because he could. Also because Thranduil had done the same for his namesake years before and that was a grudge all dwarrow folk would hold… forever.

“Who died and made you King?” Thorin Stonehelm, King Under the Mountain, grumbled under his breath but all Elves around him heard loud and clear and Bronwe laughed out loud as some of the others chuckled discreetly.

“I could answer that, your grace, but my liege would find it distasteful.” The bold elf mocked openly.

Gimli was tired and dirty. It was over. He was sitting on a rock on the battle field as Legolas and his nephews and Bronwe organized everything with Stonehelm and his advisors. The reminiscent of the King’s army followed his love as if they were a flock of sheep who just found themselves shepherd less and thought the blond archer was a good enough prospect. Some of them tried to kneel and plead allegiance then and there, but Legolas would just smile at them kindly and ask them for patience, there was a lot to do before thinking about allegiances.

Gimli was just sitting there on his rock smoking a pipe. He needed that. He deserved that. He had bled for at least a small moment of peace. He heard, then, the drag of chains. He was ready to chastise the ones using them; Legolas had said no prisoners would be made. The words never left his lips, though. Dwalin, Nori and Bofur were bringing Gilion bound in chains with a piece of dirty fabric over his mouth as a gag. It seemed like it wasn’t only him, who couldn’t stand the endless talking of that wretched elf. They all looked muddy from head to toe from the battle, but Gimli was relieved to see they looked mostly unharmed.

“Hey, lad! Care to share some of that leaf with an old friend? My back is killing me!” Said Bofur as he approached faster than the rest of the group and perched himself on the rock across from the redbearded dwarrow.

“My dear Gimli, what should we do with this one?” Nori asked and he looked delighted that they were the ones to capture Legolas’ petty hateful brother. He even had a spring in his step as he conducted the chained elf that constantly fell to his knees due to Nori’s yanking of his chain.

“Yes. Should we behead him like the King?” Dwalin asked, as he lifted Gimli’s axe from where it rested beside him and thumbed the edge of the blade testing its sharpness. His grin also brought blood thirst. He was also enjoying their game. And let’s say his menacing tone was a lot more threatening than Nori’s. Which was a mistake since Nori’s wicked mind knew of no boundaries when it came to torture. 

Gimli blew a circle of smoke that reminded him of Gandalf. He pondered. He knew well that the fact that he was being consulted was the ultimate sign of respect from his Dwarrow. His heroes had just put him on a place beside them as equals.

“You old dogs…” The younger dwarrow smiled fondly, feeling deeply grateful for them. “You know, if it were for me to decide, I would skin him alive. Slowly. And let the crows eat his eyes. But I’m not the one he wronged more. Legolas should decide.”

“You know you spoil your boy too much, don’t you?” Asked Nori, bawdily. They all laughed. 

Gimli’s boy… Gimli’s elf, Gimli’s love, Gimli’s One, Gimli’s life, Gimli’s King, Gimli’s one and only Fate. Vengeance was so little to offer him. Gimli had dreamed of offering him a Home. A place for them, for their family. Just for them. Away from all politics. Gimli’s Fate was bound to Legolas’ and he knew that no matter how much blood he spilled for him, it wouldn’t buy them that Home he had dreamed for them. The blood had just won Legolas the Big Sit there at the Woodland Realm and his heart broke a little at that thought. No matter how much blood he spilled it wouldn’t buy them that Home, that Home he wanted to built in Aglarond. His Life’s Work. But he knew that Legolas was more important… And they had just bound him to Eryn Lasgalen. His love was King.

He almost cried at that thought and for the first time in his life, victory tasted like ash in his mouth.

Damned be Thranduil Oropherion who still cursed Gimli’s life even in death.

 

To be continued...


	38. Naming Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to be so slow to write. We are getting to the end. We will find out Gilion's fate, we will find out how Legolas and Gimli are going to deal with the post-war situation. But in this chapter they will have a family moment. It is short.

The hurt were tended to, the bodies were cleaned up, disposed of, honored as the heroes they were, for their sacrifices. Loved and cried for. 

There was a great Feast to celebrate the Dead.

Their stories were told. Their memory toasted to.

Legolas sat at the Head Table beside Thorin Stonehelm. He had Gimli by his side. The King and Gloin hated to have to deal with the exile again so close to them and those in power, but he had been the one to kill the Head of the Enemy Army with King Legolas. For now, all were calling him that. And Gimli was the Hero of the Battle the Legendary Warrior of the Dwarrow race. Again they were put in high places they couldn’t care less about.

But Legolas was always one to make sure he was given the respect he thought his Dwarf deserved, so he was very specific about the sitting arrangements of his trusted advisors. The table and the feast were all moved outside the Mountain also because of him. Legolas had said that all warriors should sit in that feast, even the ones that had followed his father, even those who would not bend a knee. Even his brother. And that was because all had lost too much in that battle. And senseless and meaningless loss it all had been. He had demanded they all should mourn together. That it would strengthen the bonds between them all. Together in tragedy they should rise to friendship. And right he was, it was clear in the face of all who shared stories of their lost. And Gimli was once again astounded by the giving nature of his One’s heart. He was also in awe of his thoughtful political gesture. Those who were still unsure if they should swear allegiance to Legolas would see him as fair and kind and be appeased that he thought of them. It also made him a bit sick… How right Thranduil was about Legolas being perfect for Kingship. It felt as if the smug smarmy twice-accursed Elf had won in the end… Once again. But Gimli said nothing. All the respect should be given to the dead and dead the Mad-King was. 

Again Gimli was a hero, and that sat even worse with his former kin. Dwalin, Nori and Bofur, though, were just sitting there, on the side of the Elves, glaring at the King Under the Mountain, as if daring him and his to say anything to their friend. It was written in their fake laughs and their smirks, that if any tried to offend Gimli at that table, there would be a riot. 

Gimli felt grateful, it felt wonderful to have family again. 

It felt wonderful to have other dwarrow around his son too. Dwarrow that made sure to bear witness to his son’s Naming. They had done the Cerimony just before the Banquet of the Dead. He had wanted to have a good memory in midst of the ones of the dead, for hope of better days amongst the Darkness of the Fallen. So he had brought all his dwarrow with him as he took his son, his reason for joy, his delight in life to the Huge and Sacred chamber in the deepest of Halls in the Mountain. With them, they took his One and though Finrod didn’t feel bad for being that deep into the ground, Legolas walked slowly and looked sickly. It had pained Gimli to see him so but his love would have none of it. It was a Ritual for Family and Legolas would stand by his son, proud father that he was to have brought him into this World.

There, they had put Finrod over the Stone. Sturdy and strong granite in hues of dark blue that looked like the sky at night, dotted with small twinkling pieces of crystal that looked like stars. Deeply polished and sculpted with runes and beautiful geometrical patterns stood the stone altar where an infinite number of dwarrow had laid before his son to receive their Name, to hear the whispered voice of the Maker. Sacred. No Elf had ever stepped in that hallowed Hall, but also no Elf had ever birthed a half-dwarrow with the blood of Durin before. Legolas had standed as tall as he could due to the pressure of the Mountain. He held Finrod’s right hand. Gimli held the left. Dwalin held the dust of rock. Nori, the water. Bofur brought a stone bowl. 

Gimli took some handfuls of dust. It was already mixed up, but it brought all that he was sure to be part of his boy. Dust of mithril and sapphire, that represented those of line of Durin. Dust of rubies and gold for his Firebeard lineage. Dust of Mallorn trees for it was under them his love for his One flourished and dust of Eryn Lasgalen trees which he could never remember the name of, for it was also his heritage. In the bowl that Bofur carried, Gimli mixed the dust with water making a thick mud that glittered in the light of the lamps of golden light. They came from stone, they were made of stone and thus he used his fingers to paint the dust on his son’s skin writing the sacred runes of Mahal, on his forehead for blessed thinking, on his palms for good word, above his heart for strength and love. He said his prayers to the Maker on the sacred Kuzdul and heard the answering ones said in the light voice of his One. Legolas had tried so hard to learn the right way to say the words, he added a prayer in Elvish too. Thanking Aule for both his most important gifts. Gimli smiled at that. 

All the others left the three of them on the Hall and closed the door. The lamps were darkened to twilight and silence had reigned for a few minutes. Until the rumble of the Montain, the voice of the Maker whispered the name. The secret name that all dwarrow took to the Halls of Waiting and only shared with his parents and his One.

Finrod’s name meant: Mender of Broken things. Fixer.

And Gimli was never prouder. His son had a Name and he also had tears in his eyes and infinite happiness in his smile. He had heard the voice of the Maker. He was as much dwarrow as any of his ancestors and Gimli was laughing his happiness out among tears of joy as he lifted his boy from the altar and kissed him smudging the runes painted on his face. Even Legolas was beyond moved. They were so blessed he felt he could brave anything. Even the Banquet of the Departed. 

Even the burden of being forever chained to the Throne of the Woodland Realm.

 

To be continued...


	39. A Crowd Awaits

When they left the Sacred Hall after the naming, there had been a big gathering around the door.

Innumerous dwarows stood there looking at them as they exited. ‘Does he have a Name?’ some asked, ‘What is his Name?’ others inquired, ‘Could an Elf have a Name?’ was also whispered. 

Dwalin, Nori and Bofur came to them, shielding from the crowd of curious. Dwalin made sure to scream loud and very aggressively “Of Course he has a Name, you blabbering buffoons!!!”

And that sureness made Gimli’s heart lighter; he looked Dwalin in the eye and said.

“Yes, he does.”

The hushed tones spread among the crowd as they left. Gimli didn’t care, but Legolas’ eyes and ears followed the whispers. Gimli’s curiosity got the best of him and he had to ask.

“What are they saying?” He asked without looking his beloved in the eyes as they walked back to their quarters. The others followed before them playing amongst them with Finrod. They all loved him so. It was as if it was their own grandchild. 

“That he is some kind of chosen one. That the Valar sent him. That he is the one who will mend the rift between Dwarrow and Elf.” Legolas said mockingly, as if it was a simpleton notion.

“And what do you think?” Gimli continued his enquiry raising his right eyebrow for emphasis.

“I?” His love asked, as if the answer should be obvious, even to one as dimwitted as him. “I am sure of it.”

“Ain’t it hubris to think such?” He asked, more for the fun than for good measure.

“Only when it’s not true.” The elf answered with the same tone. “And you heard it just as I did… Even with your poor hearing.” 

“Now you are getting proud, Elf.”

“Only because I have you to make me humble again, Dwarf.” He said and they laughed together.

Finrod that was a bit down the hallway, listened to this end of conversation and couldn’t help but think: ‘My parents are such cute dorks…’

 

To be Continued...


	40. New Woodland Realm

There was a big Cerimony after that yet. It should be the last one and they should leave after. Thorin Stoenhelm was growing restless of their continued presence in his Kingdom, but he couldn’t just throw them out since he had extended them his friendship and hospitality.

All Elves but one bended the knee in a much honored manner and full of a fanfare Gimli felt was not worthy of people who had followed the Mad King, but that was one of the reasons he was Consort to the King and not King himself. Gilion was the only one who refused the pardon being far too proud and too resentful. He was exiled of all Elven lands as well as all Dwarrow lands and Gondor. He would wander forever alone amongst mortals. Doomed for solitude. 

The whole surviving army, battered and hurt, they pledged their alligeance to King Legolas Thranduilion Ruler of the Silvan Elves of Eryn Lasgalen. As mentioned the Cerimony was full of pomp, Legolas dressed to impress in a dark green robe, his head crowned with a circlet and still prodly wearing his matrimony braids. He inspired his people. 

To Legolas surprise, others also bended a knee. Elves that were part of Bronwe’s company, loyal to Celeborn, also came forth when Bronwe himself came before Legolas. They all kneeled as one, in tune as was costumary for Elven armies. Bowing his head in a humble manner Bronwe himself started talking with utmost respect. 

“My King Legolas, I wrote in my name and in name of those of all the brothers I have with me before you. We send message to Lord Celeborn, Lord of Caras Galadhron, to release us of his service. We know that we promised our service and our lives to him, but we decided we had to be free. For if he has our service and our lives, you’ve gained our hearts, for you, King Legolas, showed your strength and your kindness in every step of our way here. You showed us truth and delivered our hearts’ desire to our contentment. You gave us our vengeance. Sweet, in the name of our lost loved ones. For that we will be forever grateful. Also for that, we were relieved of our services to Lord Celeborn, and it is our wish to bend a knee to you. It is an honor to be beside you and to serve you. And if you were so kind as to receive into your service these that slew their kin in name of the Mad King, we pledge ourselves to you in the hope to be worthy of your kindness, King Legolas. To follow and cherish to the death.”

“The way you speak, Elf, you sound like you are proposing my husband!” Gimli said in jest but with a small bite, to show all that no matter how kind and good Legolas was he was Gimli’s. 

“Lord Gimli, you delivered the final blow to that beast that wore the face of an Elf. Our gratitude extends to you as well as our service. All our pledges extend to you, Elf Friend, Earthen Star, because you are blood and heart to the King we chose and sired our Prince. May the Valar bless the line of Durin which gifted us with your presence in this world.”

“Had I not seen you fight, I would peg you for a bloody bard, Bronwe!”

“I got my place of honor not only with a sword at hand, my Lord.”

He could see Dwalin rolling his eyes in the back and Bofur trying and failing to hold a chuckle. There are some things about Elves which will never change, no matter how much you get to know them and sometimes even like them and one of them is that their arrogance is always vexing to a Dwarrow.

With that Legolas was King. He made a beautiful speech about alliances and unity and trust. Then, he spoke about appointing his Heir and Gimli felt the pit of his stomach disappear. Would his beloved do that and crown their boy Heir without so much as speaking to him?

“I name you, Achardir Noldorionion, my Heir and Crown Prince of the Woodland Realm. May all our friends bear witness. As it is you with the help of your brother, Prince Golwenin Noldorionion who will lead our people back to their homes. As for me, I will lead an envoy to the White City and honor a promise that was made seven winters past to King Elessar Telcontar of the United Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor during the War of the Ring and start a Colony of Silvan Elves in Ithilien. For the New Woodland Realm, mine and yours, is one that honors their promises.” Legolas said in a firm voice that held no room for discussion and in that moment Gimli felt joy, for he understood. Legolas never wanted the Crown and he had told the brothers he would be commander of war, but not King. They were heirs and they were smart, and Legolas just dropped on their laps their Legacy, their Right. The Legacy that had belonged to Noldorion. His love, though, was not finished and he didn’t look any more merciless at the look of panic that lit the brother’s faces. He continued to speak before they could think of a protest.

“In the same spirit of fulfilling promises of years past, it is my duty to open the invitation to all that are here to follow me in this enterprise. So, all those who wish to start anew, are welcome to follow us to our Colonies. It is also my pleasure to announce that we will also need in our envoy workers of crafts, stone masons and specialists in stones. For King Gimli also promised in friendship to the King of the Mark, Eomer, to start a Colony in the Glitterin Caves, known by the Dwarrow name of Aglarond. There, it shall be built a mining community, our second new Colony. King Gimli stands beside me as my equal and as such we open our Kingdom, this New Woodland Realm we are building to all Dwarrow that wish for a new start in Aglarond. Under the Rule of King Gimli of the Line of Durin. It must be said, though, that ours is a Realm where all shall be as brothers. Elves and Dwarrow as well as Men and Hobbits. For this is the Kingdom where my son will grow up. And my son is Dwarrow and Elf alike. As shall be this Kingdom. Let it never be forgotten that Ithilien and Aglarond as much as Eryn Lasgalen, will be Sister Cities. And those who stand in the armies or workforce of either, shall hold and protect the other in the same esteem for we are only one Kingdom. Let it be known, that no innocent Dwarrow shall ever see the darkness of the Dungeons of Erin Lasgalen ever again. This is the first step I take as a King to have a community where Elves and Dwarrow have the same worth. And that is my Decree as King of the New Woodland Realm.” 

The silence reigned amongst all. The Crown Princes were still shocked out of words. Thorin Stonehelm looked as if he was holding back from being sick. Bronwe chuckled in amusement out aloud as if his King never ceased to amaze him which he probably never would. Gimli’s words escaped his lips with a laugh that was so happy he had tears of joy in his eyes.

“And I thought we would be forever chained to your father’s chair!” 

“My Love, my One…” Said the King with an evil devilish grin. “I can’t undo my promises and dishonor my word because my Father decided to break his. Not when I have heirs that are politically apt and warriors in their own right. It is their Legacy. The Crown was always Noldorion’s before it was mine. I told them from the start, I didn’t want it, buy they gave it to me anyway. They might as well suffer the consequences for their uncaught decisions! Now they all just have to receive all dwarrow I see fit with open arms!”

“You beautiful vindictive Elf!” Gimli exclaimed. He wanted to break all protocol and just kiss the sassy King in front of all their allies. He didn’t, though. His One was already making a very good job provoking all assembled on his own.

“Your beautiful vindictive Elf.” He said in a low tone that was just for Gimli and winked at him. It proved that he knew well where he was going and what he was doing. 

“I love ya, ye know that, right?”

“You might have mentioned.”

 

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There shall be one or two Epilogues yet, actually maybe 4, where I'll tie what happens to Gilion among other things, but the thick of the plot is done! I also promise one more sex scene for our love birds and a glimpse of the New Kingdom and its Colonies.


	41. A Letter from Uncle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. I promised a new sex scene and I'm going to deliver. We will have 3 Epilogues.

Epilogue 1

 

“Oh, no… Don’t tell me it is another request for resources from Dale…” Complained Achardir, letting his head fall on the wooden desk, his golden hair spilling over the parchment of the letters he had on it. He had read somewhere ‘Winning is easy, young man, governing is harder.’ And at that very moment there were no wiser words in his mind.

“No, brother, this is good news. A letter from Uncle.” Answered Golwenin with a spring in his step as he entered the room. He seemed excited.

“You mean his grace the King?” His brother asked in a droll voice that was born from the tiredness that came of ruling.

“No, I mean from Uncle.” Golwenin argued glaring a bit at his brother, not letting anything get his mood down. His brother was so much for drama. “This is family news, not a Royal Dispatch.”

“Good! I think I could not think of any more problems for today. If I knew being King was so taxing… No wonder Thranduil went insane…” Achardir said in sarcasm.

“Do not jest about that.” The younger chastised. “Besides… You aren’t King, yet. No matter that Uncle travels like crazy and sits in the smallest of the Cities of our Kingdom, you know in the end he is the one who decides. No matter how much he says that we are all equal rulers. Gimli doesn’t fart without talking to him first and you… All the times you tried to do so, ended in disaster.”

“Last time wasn’t that bad.” Achardir’s eyes went far as he leaned back on his chair.

“True. Shows that you are learning. But I have to remind you that half of that brilliant idea of yours and the genius execution were mine.” Golwenin winked at his brother, mischievous.

“You are so conceited.” Achardir accused as if they were children again. 

“I know.” 

“Quit the chase and tell me what it says!” The older one demanded.

As his brother read the letter he saw his eyes grow wide and his mouth fall open in surprise. The look soon turned to a delighted smile. “Valar be praised!!! He is pregnant again!!!”

Achardir choked on his own spit. “Sure you are jesting!”

“I’m not!”

“Fuck me!” Exclaimed the older brother in shock. “And I thought that one was impossible, two are a bloody miracle!”

“I’m your brother, I won’t fuck you.” Golwenin jested in his good humor at such wondrous news. “They are young and healthy, though. And very passionate if my ears did not deceive me in their last visit.” He said with his handsome face twisting in slight disgust at remembering what he knew of his Uncle’s bedroom practices. 

“They did not, brother, as mine didn’t either or those of the rest of the court. You know, though, that male pregnancies are extremely rare, right? And even worse that our kind is not the most fertile.” Achardir said conversationally. 

“Do I know… 3 to 4 children in what? Two thousands of years of marriage?” Observed the younger understanding his point. 

“That’s the average. You cannot forget that they are not the same species, either.” The Crown Prince continued.

“May be a mortal thing. They do have such a short lives. They could be more fertile. I heard man can sire five children in a life of 40 years. How old is Finrod again? He is still a child.” Reflected his brother.

“I believe he is thirty seven and I heard from Nori that the average number of children for Dwarrow families is one or two.” 

“Well, Uncle always said they were blessed by the Valar… Maybe we should find maidens and get married?” Sighed Golwenin as if seeing the truth in his uncle’s words at last.

“I wouldn’t say heirs are exactly a problem at the moment…”

 

End of Epilogue 1


	42. On the Finding and Keeping of Secrets and Surprises

Epilogue 2

Aragorn and Faramir walked through the gardens of the White City with a feeling of contentment. Flowers bloomed and trees grew beautifully as if by magic. They knew it wasn’t that far from the truth. The convoy from Ithilien had just arrived and the Elves in their party always had a touch with everything green. They had come initially only to guard and help the Dwarvish stonemasons that had come to fix the aqueduct that served the White City, but it seemed they couldn’t resist a garden. It was so peculiar. How sworn enemy races could mend the rift for a new hope. Living together, working together, building a new World. All embodied in the epic romance of a pair of very valorous slightly crazed Kings and the living proof of their love. Legolas and Gimli were changing the World. Molding the Fourth Age just as Aragorn himself was doing and it pleased the King of Men for there was great promise for the new age and it warmed his heart even more. 

Their contentment was not shared by the Crown Prince, though. Eldarion was very much distressed. Though the envoy from Ithilien was still there for there was much work to be done, his bestest of all friends, Finrod, was gone to Aglarond with his father the King. It would be a long time before he saw him again. Finrod, like his father Legolas, was always in constant motion. The King would rule over Ithilien, true, but he frequently left Bronwe in charge of things so he could visit Aglarond which was ruled by King Gimli, but was part of the Woodland Realm. Then he would travel up North to Eryn Lasgalen which in turn was ruled Crown Prince and his brother. They also always stopped by Lorien, to visit the Lord and Lady of the Wood, Eldarion’s great grandparents. Great-grandma Galadriel was completely taken with Finrod. She had taken to teaching him high Quenya and secrets not even Eldarion’s father was not privy to, just as she did with Arwen’s boy. Lord Celeborn used to say she had missed having children around. 

They had to travel with haste this time, though, so the visit to Gondor was cut short and there would be no visit to the Greenwood nor the Golden one. There was news that no one told Eldarion that needed to be told to the King in Aglarond, so Finrod had to go. 

Arwen had been the one to notice the signs. The proud blonde King wouldn’t be able to hold not even the lightest of meals in the morning. The Queen commented on it to her husband who asked his friend about it, he was a healer after all. King Legolas had just arrived and he said he had suffered through the same symptoms during his whole time in the road. He believed it to be some kind of dwarvish food he had tried. Aragorn also asked about the last time he had seen his grace the King’s husband which had been just before he traveled to the White City. They had spent their time together and departed at the same time, each for a different destination.

The Queen smiled knowingly at hearing that. 

At seeing her smile, Legolas knew what she was thinking and understood that it was a very real possibility. He prepared immediately to go meet the Dwarrow King. Legolas wanted to be the one to tell him, he wanted to tell him in person. 

So he sent a raven to his nephews, one to Bronwe and departed on horseback with Finrod, Miro, Bofur and Tauriel. Their little family had scattered through the Cities after the War for the Greenwood, as the Civil War in Eryn Lasgalen had benn called. Miro and Bofur would never leave Finrod’s side. Tauriel was a shadow to Legolas, as Dwalin was to Gimli, they were and would always be King’s Guards after all. Bronwe would spend most of his time in Ithilien, managing the day to day, since Legolas was always on the road and the Princes ruled in Eryn Lasgalen. Gimli mostly kept to Aglarond, but when his heart grew small and constricted with missing his love or his son, he traveled. Finrod spend long periods with one of his parents and then the other and then both of them. Nori would always turn up beside those who would have most need of him, for he was the one who always knew what was happening. It wasn’t such a surprise when he just joined the traveling party on their way to Aglarond.

When they approached the Deep, the Elvish archer upon the wall announced in a high voice so that the Guardians of the Gate could hear:

“Open the gates the King of Wood is here!” 

“Are you sure, Amdír?” Asked the closest dwarrow. “The King of Stone just came back from Ithilien.” 

The archer, Amdír, rolled his eyes exasperated. “Oh Valar! Yes, I’m sure, Narn! I was appointed for this position because of my eyesight, was I not?”

“Sorry, Elf. It’s just… Weird.” Grumbled the dwarrow. Ever since the Woodland Realm became an open Kingdom to all races, dwarrow and elves just HAD to learn to survive each other. Fighting on the street would not be tolerated and the punishment for that was exile. Not one of those who had decided to venture into this Realm would risk losing their shot at a new life for something so small as old disagreements. And even if they made it work, this kind of discussion wasn’t that rare. There wasn’t anything Dwarrow loved more than arguing and the elves of the Realm were more and more used to that and becoming quite argumentative themselves. The Galadhrin in Lothlorien would think it most peculiar and rarely would engage any Silvan in discussion. For they had become as ruthless and stubborn as their dwarrow compatriots.

“You can just ask the King of Wood of his devices if you wish. I just want you to open the bloody gates. Valar protect us from the stubbornness of Dwarves.” The elf said.

The ingenious dwarrow doors opened mechanically and word traveled fast from a guard to the next, “The King is here! The King of Wood has arrived!” they would below to each other until it reached the Head of the King’s Guard.

“What in Hell are you blabbering about? The King is in Gondor.” Dwalin concluded.

“Not anymore, Commander of Stone.” Answered the dwarrow guard. “The archers at the wall confirm that it is the King of Wood and the Prince of the People, with the Commander of Wood.”

What the people of the New and United Woodland Realm learned early in during the constructions of their new cities was that having two Kings and three Princes was somewhat confusing. Especially when trying to uphold the appropriated decorum that should be offered to Royals. When they had tried to call King Gimli King Consort, King Legolas went into a screaming fit saying they were equals. And in their eyes it can even be so, but all regents of all three cities ended up always deferring to King Legolas’ wisdom. No matter if it was the other King, the Princes or the Warden Bronwe. They decided to title them for their strong feats. King Legolas became the King of Wood, the spine of the Woodland Realm that kept the hearts of the people united and close through the cities. The waggling tongues of the small people called him the King that Ruled, for everyone knew, all decisions went through him. King Gimli was dubbed the King of Stone, for all stone work, constructions and Crafts Guilds passed through his approval, his name among the common folk was the King that Worked. Then there were the Prince of Peace and the Prince of War. Those were Golwenin and Achardir. And Finrod, who was Prince of the People for he was Elf and Dwarrow alike and all loved him. 

“Mahal have mercy on us! And he is King! If I was Commander of Wood I would have gone mad with his changeable manner! Tauriel should be made Maya for her patience.” Dwalin grumbled to himself as he interrupted the heated discussion between the sculptors, the stonemasons, the Guild of Miners and the King of Stone. Gimli turned a storm filled glare at the door for the interruption.

“What is it, Dwalin?!” He asked at the end of his patience with all the ego in that room. 

“The King of Wood has arrived.” The older dwarrow announced trying to maintain some decorum in front of the subjects. Gimli’s eyebrows lifted at once in a surprised manner. It hadn’t been in their plans. Legolas was supposed to spend a few months in Gondor. Dread gripped at his heart and he left a room full of elves and dwarrow talking to themselves, not caring what so ever for his lack politeness. No matter how much they needed him, he would not be able to help them if he was worried about his One. He walked swiftly to the courtyard as fast as his short strong legs would carry him without running. He couldn’t lose his grip and despair. Not yet.

His Elf was there, just caressing his horse. His son, just behind him. They were whole, they were safe. Gimli almost melted, some tension leaving his shoulders. In haste, he exclaimed at Legolas:

“For Mahal’s sake! What is going on here?”

He walked nearer his Love at a more calm pace, but still there was agitation in him. Legolas, though, seemed unperturbed. He smiled wide and warmly as he rarely did in such public place. Gimli felt his insides grow molten just looking at him. It was a mixture of passion and love and all goodness in the world. He felt in that instant just how much he had missed his One. 

“My King of Stone!” Said Legolas to uphold courtesies, nodding, as it was protocol. But Gimli heard the very delicate irony that the Elf put in there. The Dwarrow truly hated the damn courtesies so Gimli often forgot all about them. At the reminder he mimicked his Elf.

“My King of Wood!” He said loud and clear for the judging commoners. 

“Da!” A young voice shouted from behind Legolas, and Finrod came running like stumpede of wild horses. No mind to a single protocol what so ever and Gimli just loved him all the more for it. The young thing came bounding at him and threw himself at his shorter father. Gimli held him high above him head in pleasure, he was so slight. The smile on the Dwarrow’s face lighting the room like it was the own Arkenstone. “My boy! How I missed!” He said out loud and held him close into a hug.

“Me too, Da! It’s so good to see you!” 

“It is, son, it is.” He told his son and put him down. “Are you taking good care of your Ada?”

“Of course I am. Do you think I left Eldarion alone because I wanted to?” The red-headed boy frowned at him, it was obvious that if it was up to him he would have stayed with his friend. Man grow up SO fast. He was afraid Eldarion would grow bored of his company soon and being the only child around was always so boring… 

“You and Eldarion… Thick as thieves, I know. I’m proud you are here to protect your Ada.” Gimli said, showing how very proud he was of his boy with a wise kind smile. “Now I have to talk to him to know what seems to be the problem. Go on ahead that I have to have a serious talk with your Ada. I’ll see you in a bit.” He told the boy and Miro took him to his rooms, Bofur following them with a nod and a delighted smile to the Kings.

“Will you tell me what is going on now, my King of Wood?” Gimli asked turning his eyes to his One. Legolas smiled again and said he preferred to explain in the privacy of their rooms. As they walked there followed by their Commenders, Dwalin looked up at Tauriel who looked glowing with happiness.

“You know what’s up.” He accused her.

“I do.” She answered with humor.

“And you are not telling me.”

“No.” She laughed.

“Bollocks.”

 

Follows to Epilogue 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I'm writting the sex scene, I just want to do it well since we had so little of them.


	43. Finally!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the smut I promised So many months ago. I hope you all enjoy!

When they found themselves in the privacy of their rooms, Gimli was nervous again about all the secrecy.

“Will you tell me now?” He demanded from Legolas one more time.

“I think now is a good time.” The Elf said with a mocking smile, he was having a lot of fun seeing his dwarrow so flustered.

“Tell me already!” Gimli demanded again having had enough of this game.

“Sooo impatient.” Legolas mocked as his walked into the rooms calmly, leaving in the corner by the door his travel pack. He sat on their bed, removing his boots with a sigh, still smirking at his beloved. Back to his feet he went up to his dwarrow and lifted his chin so that the frown that marred his handsome face would be directed to his eyes. He ignored it totally, though, kissing the twisted down lips with hunger. Gimli couldn’t hold on to said anger if his life depended on that. He relaxed into the kiss opening his mouth and pulling Legolas closer, kissing him deeper. He had missed his elf so much. Soon Gimli was holding their bodies together feeling with pleasure his elf’s rod poking at his front. He smiled within the kiss.

“It seems tables are turned and you are the one with no patience at all.” 

“The mere vision of you wears it thin for I have great need of your… axe.” The elf said, his voice needy, seductive and totally shameless.

“Fuck, I can’t resist when you are bawdy, who would think the proper and polite and perfect King of Wood, followed by Elves and Dwarrow alike would say such things.” Gimli mock accused.

“Then make haste and split me open with your powerful weapon. It’s been too long.” He whispered in his dwarrow’s ear, his eyes hooded and lewd, twinkling stars of mischief.

The dwarrow didn’t need to be asked twice, he wanted his husband so! He started on Legolas’ laces and buckles with desperation and soon grew frustrated with his efforts. 

“Then take off thy royal robes, your majesty, because they are mighty complicated!” 

“Says the dwarrow who wears five layers and some armor!” Legolas jested back at him with a small laugh.

They stripped as quickly as possible, to each their own clothes because they wanted each other too much to wait any longer. As soon as Gimli felt the colder air around his skin a shiver trailed down his back. Colder hands with long and slim fingers followed, caressing the dusting of red hair that covered his chest under his beard just as the cold air had done before it.

Gimli was utterly beautiful. His hair and beard were a myriad of tones that varied from a deep red to rust and some very light strawberry blond in highlighted tresses that were colored by the sun. Legolas enjoyed burring his fingers through it with abandon. His fingers were cold but Gimli loved the feel of them. They looked so frail only to grip at Gimli with mighty strength, honed by years of archery. His Love was everything that a normal dwarrow would despise in a partner. He was lean and tall and beardless as a child. His muscle though solid didn’t look hard. He looked so different from anything that he had ever thought beautiful in a lover. His hair was too thin and his body too hairless. 

Gimli had been enchanted though. As if Legolas’ skin sang to him like a siren. In his whiteness, it looked as if his very skin captured the moonlight, reflecting in opalescence. Glowing softly when it was dark, it called to him as the Ring had done once. He wasn’t strong enough to deny this call though he resisted Sauron’s evil. If Legolas hair was too thin, it looked as if made of molten gold, splashing over the white pillows bellow them as Gimli threw him careless on the mattress as if he weighted nothing. He didn’t, really. As if his bones were hollow as a bird’s. Legolas grunted at his fall and Gimli loved the sound of his baritone. No matter how hairless, nor how soft he looked. Legolas was male, his voice was deep and he loved to listen to it as it begged for his axe in a debouched manner. He loved that he could unmake the fortress that was Legolas. He loved that his touch made him writhe and loose all sense of propriety. Legolas was beautiful the way nature was beautiful, the way trees were majestic or tigers were a work of art. And it took the whole War of the Ring and almost loosing Aragorn for him to realize just how so. He was wild and precious, so far gone from that image Gimli had first built into his mind the first time they had met in Rivendell. He had thought him so cold and unfeeling, as if made of ice. He had learned better, though. The fire of his forge had melted the hard unyielding Mithril his love was made of.

Gimli splayed his One’s body onto the bed and proceeded to worship as it deserved to be. His lips traveled down his neck, the hollow of his throat, to the rosy buds that were his nipples. There, Gimli pulled gently at the diamond stud he had convinced Legolas of keeping in his right nipple. It shone gracefully in the light and filled him with pride for it was a matched pair with his own golden nipple ring. Not happy with neglecting the left hardened pebble, Gimli pinched it lightly serenading a delicious moan from his elf. He decided to continue his way down licking the other King’s ribs and blowing softly over the wet heated flesh. His beard caressed and tickled its way down and he knew how it drove his Love wild. It teased the heated flesh of his elfhood with just soft brushing with no real friction.

Gimli had been teased enough with this secret, so tease he would in vengeance. His clever tongue designed slowly, oh SO slowly, runes of love on his One’s pelvic bones, teasing and teasing and completely ignoring the hard member below. 

“If you don’t taste me soon, I’ll fuck you myself!” Said the elf on the edge of despair. 

Gimli smiled and engulfed the hard elfhood on his mouth letting out a laugh as his Elf cursed, the vibrations on his throat making for a lovely feeling on the elven shaft. Gimli’s tongue was as skilled as his hands, twirling around Legolas’ member who could only whimper. Gimli’s beard caressed his balls in a very enticing way. He had missed his dwarf like he would miss his bow arm. As his love drew him near completion he felt himself tense and clench just imagining Gimli inside him. 

Gimli felt the flavor of his love in his tongue as he heard Legolas lose himself in pleasure. His lover always lost his grasp on Westron when he came. The string of curses in Sindarin was pretty much cherished by Gimli when it was let out of his lips. He still remembers that that was the REAL reason for him to have started learning the language, just so he could know what his love said in his most passionate of moments. And the truth was… When he came, the polite and prim King of Wood could make a rough miner blush. 

Having swallowed his lover’s seed, Gimli went further down, not letting his love have a moment of peace. Elves recovered faster than young dwarrow lads who had nothing but sex on their minds. So he couldn’t care less that Legolas whined begging him to wait as he licked and teased his hairless balls. Taking each into his mouth as his Elf arched off the bed for being still sensitive after his pleasure. 

He didn’t wait. He kept his clever tongue going further, lower, lapping all the way to the puckered rosy hole. It smelled of soap and Elven musk and Gimli knew Legolas had planned for this, stopping on the way to Aglarond to cleanse himself in the river. 

The first lick had his Elf moaning loudly.   
“Fuck, Meleth!” The King let out.

“On my way to, my Love.” The King of Stone answered, and put his tongue to work. He stretched and wet the hole, teasing it open, slowly and patiently. He looked up and Legolas was already up and ready again, his elfhood hard and blushed red amidst the paleness of his love’s skin. He stopped for a moment to grab the lavender oil flask they kept in the bedroom, on the nightstand and coated his thick fingers generously in the perfumed substance. He licked his King’s bud again to relax him and teased it with his oiled thumb. Around and around until he sank it in, he took in out and pressed his pointer finger in and out, in and out, until his knucle, joining it with his middle finger and hearing his Elf groan with pleasure.

“More.” He begged. And Gimli took pity on him and putting in his third finger and fucking him in them in earnest. His legs were open wide, his eyes hooded, his lips trembling… Gimli never tired of the sight. Pure debauchery. 

“My Star! Please! Please!” The elven King begged and Gimli knew it was time to start hammering. 

“Should I fuck you on your hands and knees, ghivashel?” He asked calmly, his hand teasing Legolas shaft, up and down, as his One’s mewls of want filled the air. The perfume of the oil mixing with their musk inebriating them in the smell of their intimacy, his own sex was throbbing with desire for the body that lay beneath him.

“No, Gimli nin. I want to gaze upon your face as you ram me open!”

Lechery spilt in every syllabus of every word, and Gimli could not say Nay to his One. He pulled up miles and miles of whitish opalescent legs until he felt knees hooking onto his shoulders. Their position was just right. He held on Legola’s hips, his legs up and his hole just on the right line. He positioned himself and thrust in, all the way, in one sure movement. 

“Awnnn….” Moaned the Elf, feeling himself stretch around the wide dwarrow rod.

Gimli wasn’t feeling merciful or controlled enough, so he started his hammering. His movement was long and slow, taking it almost completely out just to hammer it in again in earnest. The feeling was like no other. The heat of his lover, his slick insides… He soon was lost in his hammering, pounding his One’s hole with abandon, letting his own groans color the air with his moans. 

Having picked up a faster pace and needing more, he grabbed Legolas’ smaller back with both of his hands and lifted the Elf from the bed with ease folding him up against his own legs and impaling his lover into his shaft faster and faster in a new deeper angle that hammered Legolas’ sweet spot just right making him cry louder and fall into bliss, his member untouched squirting along the pale chest, his insides squeezing Gimli tight, making him loose it too and release his seed inside his King with a might “Fuck!”

Breathless and panting they opened their eyes which had fallen shut in their moment of shared passion.

Still joined, Legolas looked at his One and smiled brightly. 

“ Gi melin.”

“Me too.”

Answered the dwarrow, still holding the elf in place. None of them, moving, only breathing each other’s air. 

“Also…” The smile on the elf’s face seemed to grow even larger and happier. “I must tell you, love, Finrod is to gain a brother or a sister in a few months time.”

Gimli faltered for a second in shock and they both stumbled from their position to their sides and onto the soft goose feathers bed. It was sure an even more awkward position than they were before, no doubt, sprawled upon each other, but still better than if they tumbled to their other side which would have taken them down to the floor and in an ever more uncomfortable position. 

“You are serious?” Gimli asked, his voice cracking with emotion.

“Yes, meleth nin. We shall be fathers once again!” Legolas explained excited.

Gimli let out a laughed of happiness that he couldn’t have hold back even if he tried! His lips stretched into a huge grin of bliss. His love was with child! A child he would be able to see the moment it was born! A child he and Legolas would raise from the crib. A brother or a sister for Finrod! The boy would be so overjoyed!!!

“Mahal be praised! Our love is blessed! I’m blessed! Because I have you and our family and our little ones!”

“Yes, my Star, we truly are.”

They spent the rest of their time that day and night enjoying their happiness. Making plans in the afterglow, having sex until the famous stamina of dwarves was destroyed and until the Elvish recovering time stretched to that of normal mortals… Until their legs were trembling and their bodies couldn’t take anymore. Until they were sated and happier than before and more tired and until they couldn’t look at one another with another look that weren’t one of silly love of youth, as if they were younglings loving for the first time. As if they weren’t to die someday. 

 

The next day, Dwalin invaded the Royal Chambers demanding an explanation for Tauriel would only laugh at him every time he asked and Nori would just keep teasing him with the information without really saying what it was. 

“You , my friend, are going to be Uncle Dwalin again!”

Gimli answered, smiling and his words traveled into the gossip of the palace, through the guards, and sentinels, and cooks and washing ladies and everyone had already heard of the news as the Kings announced it. The Kingdom, all three cities rejoiced! And Nori manned a betting pool as to the sex and coloring of the child. 

Miro and Bofur detached a group of architects to build a nursery into the Royal Chambers, making it ready for the child to be beside its parents just like Finrod’s rooms were beside it. 

Finrod, in his turn, found happiness in the news for he of tired for being the only one that was like him. The only Dwelf in history. Then they were two. 

He wouldn’t be alone anymore. 

And so it was.

 

The End


	44. APPENDIX

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fate of Thranduil Oropherion for those who have asked me. Gilion on the other hand just moved to human city and there remained as the mort hateful elf to grace Middle-Earth.
> 
> About the other members of the Company of Thorin, many of them seattled doing other things and others died of age. Bifur, for example, probably died of old age. A Bombur had his own family to worry about.
> 
> This idea about Thranduil's fate I owe my muse Fogli.

APPENDIX

Let it never be said that answers were not given to those who had asked for them.

Let it never be said that the Valar were forgiving of Thranduil and his trespasses. 

For when his lost slain soul came begging for shelter in the Halls of Mandos, he was received personally by him. And it was never a good sign. The words that predicted the Long Winter of the Noldor among other things came to mind. “Slain you will be” Mandos had said, and so it had been. He didn’t know what to expect. He was already a lost soul. 

If he looked around those who stood around the Vala, he could see many of his kind. Many who had sailed, many who had died. Celebrian, Elrond’s wife, Daughter of Celeborn, stood there. And she held the hand of a kind looking elleth. He almost had not recognized her. But he felt the longing in his soul, the one that had haunted him for so long to be assuaged by her mere sight. She was still beautiful. As always. Actually, she looked brighter and fairer than the last time he had seen her. She had looked so frail. As if she was about to shatter. Valinor had done her good. But he knew… Without all the voices in his head, all the betrayals and the paranoia that had lived in his mind… He was to be punished. He took to war those who wanted peace. He betrayed his kinsmen. He killed his own son. 

The worst of it all wasn’t facing Mandos, per se.

It was seeing Noldorion standing there beside him and on the other side of his mother. 

Thranduil’s soul held no corporeal form, but the pain that gripped his non-heart was excruciating. There was no doubt about how wrong he had been. How petty and selfish. How much of tyrant. He thought of little Finrod. He had loved him so. He thought of Legolas. He thought of Noldorion as a boy. And his non-heart screamed in regret. For everything. 

“So you came.” Said the Vala.

“Here I am.” Said the former King of a Woodland Realm that was no part of existance, it had all changed without him. Thranduil made sure to look only and the Vala. He was in pain just knowing they were there.

“Kinslayer.” Spit Mandos. “You are here to be judged. You are here, because you led Elf against Elf in your insanity. You raised your hand to your Kin and worse. You raised a sword traitorously to your own firstborn.”

Thranduil let his eyes wander to the floor. No courage to face the Vala. Only shame. He knew it was the truth. He brought all this to his own. He had sinned.

“What say you?”

“I know of my guilt, my Lord.”

“Do you? It is easy to repent at my feet, to not look in the eye those you’ve wronged. Raise your eyes and look at them for it shall be the last time.”

Thranduil did and non-tears escaped his eyes as he met the tears in his son’s eyes. Noldorion seemed endlessly sad. Forever sad. Doomed to eternal sadness. Because of him. And Thranduil cried bitterly in his regret. His wife also cried. 

“Your tears still are too few. You shall shed more. Slain… You already have been, you shall be once again. Never again no elf nor mortal shall trust you, for you betrayed all trust that was thrust upon you. You shall cry in the dark in the underbelly of the World. Alone. You shall cringe and wail in your lonely dark hole. And fire and gold will be your only companions. Until we meet again.”

Pain ripped through the soul of Thranduil Oropherion. His sould extended and his memory confused in itself as he gained a new body. Huge and reptilean, he had wings and scales and fire in his gut.

When his eyes opened he was alone in a cave in a mountain in the East of Middle-Earth far beyond the wild lands. Far from all he knew. Far from all the faces he had once holden dear. In the dark. His belly ached and he tried to puke the pain away only to be met with fire. He was vomiting fire. 

He, then, looked at his hands and found claws instead. 

He was a Dragon.

His scream shook the mountain to the foundations of the earth. 

 

 

The End


	45. BONUS ILLUSTRATIONS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art Drawn by Simone Beatriz! She is such an amazing artist.


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